Wings of the Storm
by kingmaker
Summary: All that glitters is not gold, as an ambitious Second Age chieftain is about to find out.
1. The Wind and the Rider

Author's Notes: This story can trace its origins back to December 2001, when I first saw Fellowship of the Ring and became interested in the Ringwraiths. During my AP tests that spring, I began to write this to relieve my stress and, in the year since then, it has spiraled out of control and taken on a couple other questions that have implications for the Third Age. So I decided to share it with you, that is, anyone patient enough to read and review this.

Disclaimers:

1) Celebrimbor, Annatar, most of the place names, and, indeed, the setting at large belong to J.R.R. Tolkien (or, more appropriately, the powers-that-be that hold copyrights on his material). I have merely borrowed them and I am making as much money from their use as you are for reading this (namely, nothing).

2) Caldrion, Graldor, Fremus, Frealine, Sirgo, Neblis, Deol, all the bit players, and the town of Aratur are all my creations.

3) This story is far from done, so posting will probably be slow, though I hope having readers will drive me to work more consistently rather than in fits and starts.

4) This is not what _did_ happen; rather it is, as my muse states below, what _might have happened. I know that the conventional wisdom is that the Nazgul were Black Numenoreans and kings of the south and east, but I, at least, think this is an interesting What if?_

5) I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it, and these notes have been long-winded enough, so I'll shut up now.

Wings of the Storm, Chapter I- The Wind and the Rider

[In my youth, one of my favorite pastimes was listening to the tales of my father. He told a good many of them, and through all my childhood he only repeated those that my siblings and I requested. I tended to treat these stories with skepticism, if only as a reaction to the breathless awe of my siblings. It was only later, as an adult, that I discovered that the stories, or at least some of them, were true, and had been meticulously recorded and placed in the libraries. This discovery (which of course shocked none of my brothers and sisters) led me to delve deeper into the history out of which these stories came. Such delving uncovered many facts that had remained unsaid, but also raised questions about those stories for which I could find little or no textual basis. They may have been the remnants of older tales, but I tended to dismiss them as inventions of my father. This particular one, however, had intrigued me from the first time I heard it (and I did so a number of times). Therefore, despite my concerns at relating such a tale as the truth, I have recorded it here, in the hope that another, wiser historian may discern what events herein happened in actuality, and what is but embellishment, if indeed any of it is true.]

            A wind from the east was blowing across the plain town of Aratur. Actually, it was more of a settlement, and a recent one at that, rather than a town. Graldor had brought his followers to it during the mass migrations that followed the invasions of orcs and barbaric men from the east. While most people in the region south of the Enedwaith forest either fled west or joined the dark forces, following them to whatever evil end they had planned, Graldor went east, settling in the fertile plain between the fords of the River Angren and the River Onodlo. He proclaimed himself king of the area, though he ruled only Aratur and the lands immediately surrounding, and his subjects numbered less than five hundreds, but included Caldrion, a Numenorean lad, given as a squire to Graldor after he concluded an agreement with the Numenorean traders. He was Graldor's closest confidant, and it was he who would witness the events which this history(?) concerns.

            On this particular day, Caldrion was keeping watch on the eastern 'wall' of the village, which consisted of stacks of tree trunks. It had been a quiet day, with only mild breezes from the east. But by late afternoon, heavy storm clouds had gathered beyond the Great River and were heading toward Aratur with much rapidity. He had already sent down word to Graldor in his 'palace,' who had in turn ordered preparations to be made to prevent extensive damage. Caldrion was now gazing out at the clouds, wondering how severe _this_ storm would be. There had been an inordinate number of them this summer, which, if his Numenorean instincts were worth anything, was not a good sign. Did they portend another bad harvest, which this young community simply could not afford, or was there war waiting on the horizon? Would a second wave of evil sweep across this plain on the way to greater conquests in Eregion, if it had survived the previous onslaught, or fabled Lindon? That question disturbed Caldrion as he sat, wistfully watching the clouds as they hastened toward him. Suddenly, he was jolted from his musings by a motion at the foot of the cloud. His first fear was that it was another whirlwind. One a few weeks earlier had come very close to ruining the ten years of effort that had built this town, and he feared that this next one might be coming straight toward them. As he focused, though, the shape resolved itself into a black steed and its owner, riding like the wind on the wings of the storm.

            Without hesitation, Caldrion called down, requesting that word be sent to Graldor. Though not the best-hearted man in Middle-Earth, Graldor was not unkind and would not refuse to offer shelter from a storm to a lone rider over the plains, especially if he thought that rider might offer some repayment. So it was that as the rider drew closer, the gate was opened to receive him. He appeared to be a tall figure, clad in rich but unfamiliar garments. His features were undeniably handsome, but whether they were human or elven was difficult to tell. His face looked finely chiseled and ageless, like an elf's, but his hair was a deep black, quite different from the elves of Eregion which Caldrion had met in his youth at Vinyalonde, and the rider's ears lacked the distinctive points of the elves. His horse was unnaturally thin, but it was an animal of undeniable beauty and strength. To Caldrion's surprise, Graldor came out himself to greet this stranger, who identified himself as Annatar, and proceeded to lead him into the 'palace.' As they passed Caldrion, Graldor asked his squire to follow. As the three of them entered the hall of the 'king' of the plains, the storm broke on Aratur with a fury surpassing anything the town had previously seen.

            This had been a most peculiar day, and it became moreso, as far as Caldrion was concerned, when he saw what was inside the hall. All the torches were lit, creating an eerie play of light and shadow on the walls and floor. The high table was set, as though for a feast. But the most surprising thing was that all the 'elders' of Aratur were gathered: Neblis, master of horses, Deol, lord of the watch, Melgras, Elthor, Tatalis, Orthior, and Yethas, the noble farmers, and, much to Caldrion's chagrin, Fremus, officially the steward of Aratur, and also a majority of the townsfolk. Did Graldor know that this Annatar character was coming? Caldrion would have to ask later, though he suspected that he already knew the answer.

            "Welcome, stranger from the east. On behalf of the town of Aratur and their king, Graldor the Great, Lord of the fertile plains of Aratur, Ruler of all he surveys, Mightiest man of the eastern world, Counselor of wisdom surpassing the wise..."

            Caldrion sighed. He had forgotten how many titles the sycophant Fremus had bestowed on Graldor. The full list had been sounded only once before, upon the completion of the palace, and Caldrion had been so busy examining the building itself that he hadn't realized how long Fremus had been blabbering on. He had been nineteen then, in Graldor's service for four years, and mature, physically and intellectually, though Graldor's other advisors tended to treat him as a stupid boy rather than a bright, if impatient, young man. He had never known his parents, both of whom had drowned on the way to Middle-Earth. Only a lucky chance had prevented him from joining them in the Halls of Mandos. Solmir, one of the sailors on that unfortunate ship, was blindly groping for some piece of wreckage to hold on to before his strength gave way when he grabbed a basket, containing the baby Caldrion. Solmir had cared for the child during his time in Vinyalonde, but had decided, based on a dream he had shortly after rescuing the boy, that Caldrion's fate lay not in the cities of Numenor but in the wilds of Middle-Earth. Known for being adventurous and, for a Numenorean, undisciplined, he had become the charge of the people of Vinyalonde, who rather quickly became exasperated with his frequent wanderings-off. So it was that when a trading agreement was completed with this man Graldor, the young chieftain of a not unpleasant band of natives, Caldrion was given, and not entirely against his will, to Graldor as his squire. Not long after that, a vast multitude of orcs, apparently driven on by some higher purpose, passed through the Angren Gap and Graldor, rather than join them, went through Angren Gap and, after journeying east for a week, founded a settlement on the south side of the plains, on a hill in view of the tall mountains, near a snow-fed stream.

            "... Most powerful among the natives of Middle-Earth, Lord with surpassing benevolence..."

            Caldrion sighed again. He had definitely forgotten how long Graldor's full list of titles, as determined by Fremus, was. He looked around the table. Neither Fremus' voice nor his countenance displayed any emotion. Caldrion was reminded of an elf who had once visited Vinyalonde. In the middle of his elven sleep, he stood up and recited the full roster of Noldor casualties from Nirnaeth Arnoediad, including manner of death. He went on and on in this dry, monotonous voice, which betrayed neither emotion nor understanding of the magnitude of what he was saying. So too did Fremus rattle off titles which even the legendary Celebrimbor of Eregion wouldn't dare claim. Caldrion passed his eyes over each of the elders, and noted with some satisfaction that each of them had a look of utter and complete boredom. Even Graldor looked like he was bored out of his wits. As Caldrion watched, his master, whom these hyperbolic titles were describing, tried, and singularly failed, to stifle a yawn. Caldrion giggled. All the elders turned toward him, perhaps glad for the diversion, but he quickly regained his composure and continued his survey of the room. The only person who didn't appear bored was this Annatar. He seemed almost amused, and Caldrion wondered if he perhaps knew the 'mightiest man in the eastern world' and was mentally bringing this overgrown prince of the plains down to size. That facial expression convinced Caldrion that this Annatar must be familiar with the powers-that-be in the world beyond Aratur. If given the chance, Caldrion would have to take Annatar aside and press him for information about the outside world, especially Eregion- had it been overrun? Did it still conduct trade with Vinyalonde? What, if not Eregion, had been the target of that army of orcs?

            "... Graldor, beloved by the powers… welcomes you to his palace in Aratur."

            Caldrion attempted to stifle another giggle as he realized that Fremus had forgotten how he began the welcome. That was typical of an idiot like Fremus, who, in Caldrion's opinion, was so dumb that he probably would forget to breathe if Graldor actually gave him an assignment that required thought.

            Annatar's voice resounded throughout the hall. Even though he did not sound especially loud, Caldrion could hear him clearly over the thunder, which was quite surprising considered that the walls had very little muting effect. "I thank you, Lord Graldor, for your gracious welcome. I am Annatar, an elf from beyond the Great River. I am proceeding to the fores… Enedwaith, where I have business. I thank you again for your kind offer of food and shelter for the night."

            Graldor responded with the brevity that Fremus lacked. "Welcome, then, Annatar, elf of the east. Let supper be served."

            Fremus was not to be outdone. "His Royal Highness has pronounced the start of supper. Servers, bring forth the first course. Elders, honored guest, please enjoy this food, which has been prepared by the finest chefs in Aratur, indeed in the whole of the plains."

            At least his praise for the cooks wasn't as profuse as his praise for Graldor. Caldrion, however, had gotten his answer: Graldor must have known that Annatar was coming. Fremus had certainly not gone on long enough for any number of cooks to prepare food for this many people. After a brief pause, Caldrion remembered that he should be serving Graldor, so he hastened to take his place. Graldor, however, rebuked him. "Serve our guest. I can trust you not to spill on him, if only because you don't react to the thunder and lightning."

            That was true. Perhaps because of the circumstances surrounding his early childhood, Caldrion was never afraid of or surprised by the distant fury of the clouds, a feature that made him even more unique among the young men of Aratur. It would certainly be beneficial to stand near Annatar, if only to hear every word that issued forth from his mouth. In the first stages of the meal, however, such words were few and far between. Caldrion had not realized that elves could accumulate such hunger. An elf coming from the east would almost certainly have brought sufficient provisions. Caldrion had doubts about the validity of the stranger. If he had been out of provisions for a day or two, he probably came from much farther afield than Caldrion had first suspected.

            At length, however, his hunger having been dealt with, Annatar began to engage those around him in conversation. "When did you come into Calenardhon, Prince Graldor? The last time I entered these plains, there were no men but a few nomadic huntsmen, and that was not much more than ten years ago."

            "Then you must have just missed me, sir Annatar. It has not been much more then ten years since I crossed the Fords of the Angren and founded this realm."

            Graldor paused, and Caldrion looked up. He could tell that Graldor was about to raise a question of Annatar and was trying to figure out how to phrase it in such a way that it would not bring offense. "That would mean that you crossed this plain just ahead of the orcish army. Do you know, then, what that army was intending to do, and what events drove it west? My squire, who has been serving you, is of Numenorean blood…" Annatar turned suddenly toward Caldrion. "… and has been curious about the fate of Eregion, apparently the home of a substantial number of elves."

            Another pause. Had it been any other, Caldrion would have merely assumed that the speaker was consciously crafting an answer. With this Annatar, on the other hand, Caldrion had this sudden feeling that this pause was making a deliberate mockery of Graldor's earlier pause. "I had heard rumors that a wave of evil had been following me from the east, but I don't know what it might have been after. I have never been to Eregion, but the elves of the east have assumed that it still stood. Most likely, it was a migratory group, seeking richer neighbors to raid. Or perhaps not. I have seen many evil armies in my long days, and expect to see many more." Perhaps he was mistaken, but Caldrion thought he saw Annatar's eyes light up, almost as though wreathed in flame, when he spoke of the likelihood of future evil armies. They only flashed for an instant, however, and if such dreadful eventualities pleased Annatar, he did not dwell on them long. "For such a new settlement, yours has a number of highly pleasant aspects…" Such praise for Aratur could not hold Caldrion's interest for long, so he turned his attention to other matters, such as getting a bite to eat himself.

            Annatar's discussions with Graldor proceeded to such topics as suggestions on how to improve the town, that when its glory spread, as Annatar was sure it would with such a strong and wise leader. Caldrion certainly doubted that Aratur would ever become the capital of any substantial realm. In his own lifespan, possibly, but certainly not in Graldor's. A number of the homes were not even permanent. If this were any other stranger, Caldrion would have disregarded such words entirely, but Annatar spoke with such authority that it was hard not to believe him. There could be no question that he spoke from his own mind, and was not merely repeating the outrageous claims of Fremus.

Annatar also mentioned the other human tribes that he was aware of, both on the other side of the Angren and the other side of the Onodlo, specifically touching their locations and numbers. That would have interested Caldrion, but another one of the youths, called upon to serve their elders on such a solemn occasion, had chosen that inopportune time to jump at a sharp crack of thunder and drop his load. Elthor called Caldrion, who was idle for the moment, to help clean the mess, and so Caldrion missed what Annatar had to say. He grumbled as he cleaned, silently, and sometimes not so silently, cursing Betlin for his clumsiness. Granted, he also directed his silent cursing against Elthor who, like the other 'nobles' around Graldor, treated Caldrion as nothing more than an ordinary, stupid youth. From the beginning, however, Graldor had recognized Caldrion's keen intellect and had used him as an advisor and confidant. Only in public did Caldrion act as a squire, but none of the 'nobles' recognized, or were willing to recognize, how much Graldor trusted him. Consequently, he crawled on the floor moping up spilt food.

            Meanwhile the meal had settled into a lull, that peaceful time between the main courses and the dessert during which all those feasting settle into a content, relaxed stupor. At this time, Annatar stood up and addressed the assembled elders. "Prince Graldor, elders of Aratur, I thank you again for your gracious hospitality. I am unaware of the customs which you follow, but as a guest I would like to repay that hospitality by presenting Prince Graldor with a small token of my appreciation." Suddenly, as if by magic, his hands, which had been previously unadorned, glittered as lightning reflected off a number of bejeweled rings, enough that one would want a third hand to wear them all. The entire room gasped. Annatar selected a ring from the middle finger of his right hand and held it up in front of him. "Prince Graldor, I present you with this ring. May it be for you always a token of my gratitude." Graldor took it and put it on his ring finger. For a moment, it seemed to Caldrion as though Graldor's form seemed to blur slightly. The entire room once again gasped. Then Graldor removed the ring. The entire room gasped for a third time. Caldrion heard Fremus muttering "Well, I'll be. It must be one of them magic rings." Caldrion sighed. He was surprised that the idiot had even noticed the blurring, and then had the imagination to invent this theory of a magic ring. It was a trick of the light, nothing more.

            As Caldrion returned his attention to Graldor, the prince was holding the ring in front of him, examining it in wonder. It appeared to be fashioned from silver, and in it was set a green stone, presumably an emerald. To Caldrion, the gem appeared flawless and brilliant, though when the lightning flashed the interior seemed cloudy, as though there were a storm brewing within the emerald itself. Caldrion's first thought was one of jealousy, that his lord should get such a beautiful gift. But he quickly mastered himself, remembering that he was the squire and it was his duty to serve. Observing Fremus, however, it was obvious that Caldrion was not the only one feeling envious of the recipient of such a beautiful ring. For Fremus was not even looking at Graldor's ring, but was instead staring intently at the hands of Annatar. His lips were slightly parted, and Caldrion thought he could see a thin trickle of saliva flowing down the sycophant's cheek. "O guestttt, mighty in the ways of magicaaaal powerssssss…," he began. The spell that Graldor's new ring had cast on everyone was broken, for they all turned toward Fremus and broke out in uncontrollable laughter. Even Annatar found the scene quite funny, as he could not suppress a broad grin at the pompous windbag's antics. Fremus, his already dense mind further clouded by drink, was standing in his chair, swaying violently, with his cup in hand as though he were offering a toast. He tried to continue over the laughter, but his incomprehensible babbling could not be heard. Then, to the further amusement of the people, he brought his glass down violently, obviously intending to bang on the table for attention, only to discover that the table was no longer at his waist level. The momentum swept the chair out from under him and his overlarge posterior introduced itself to the ground with a loud thump. There he sat, the stupid grin of the drunkard on his face, his eyes still fixed on Annatar's fingers. Even as the raucous laughter crescendoed, he raised his now empty cup and, now looking into Annatar's eyes, proclaimed "You… must truly be the lord of the rings." He then promptly fell over, inebriated to the point of unconsciousness. The hall was filled with a roar of laughter, but Caldrion saw that Annatar had gone silent and was staring at the place where Fremus had just been sitting. If Caldrion's lip-reading skills were worth anything, it appeared that Annatar was repeating the phrase 'lord of the rings,' as though testing its taste in his mouth.

            The laughter subsided, and everyone found his way back to his seat. Graldor set the ring in front of him and for a time withdrew from the increasingly drunken revelry about him, contemplating this gift. Finally he raised his eyes and addressed Annatar saying, "If you will pardon my asking, where did you come by such a beautiful gem? My dealings with Vinyalonde brought me in contact with gems of this color, but until tonight I had never seen one so brilliant, so flawless, with such a perfect clarity." Caldrion looked at the gem, wondering if the cloudiness he had seen earlier was just a trick of the light, but just then another flash of lightning made the cloudy flaw even more apparent.

            Meanwhile, unfazed by such a blunt question, Annatar responded, "Who knows from whence the elves of Eregion got their gemstones? From Khazad-dum, most likely, unless dwarves still inhabit the Blue Mountains of the west. Such a gem neither race would be easily parted with, but for such as those I made the Noldor an offer they could not refuse." This struck Caldrion as highly suspicious, though he could not put the proverbial finger on his doubts. He had not seen many examples of elven jewelry, but all those that he had seemed more ornate than this. He had a sudden feeling that there was a third hand in the making of this ring, besides that of the elvensmith, a hand of malice, perhaps, but certainly the hand that had caused the clouding, for no elf would have used a gem with a flaw such as that if it were natural. Did those hands craft this ring for some purpose besides the cosmetic one? Had the third hand indeed inspired the elf to make this, beyond just being a ring of beauty, a ring of magic? Fremus' simple-mindedness may have touched on something that Caldrion himself had been unable to see before. Perhaps the blurring in the stone blurred the wearer. With such thoughts swirling through his head, Caldrion began to clear the table and the meal was over.


	2. A Vision for the Future

Notes: This is, in my opinion, not the best of the five chapters I've drafted to this point, but it's necessary for the development of the plot. In it, I make a number of conjectures about the climate and population of Calenardhon that aren't stated in Lord of the Rings but make sense at least to me and provide the scenario in which future events can play out. 

Disclaimers: See Chapter I. Tolkien's characters belong to him, mine belong to me, and I get no money either way. I write just for the fun of it.

Responses to the few, the proud, the reviewers of Chapter I. Hope to see you (and hopefully a few others) review Chapter II.

**justo- In response to your corrections, the issue of Caldrion's age has been changed. I apologize for that one; I was not thinking. Regarding the elven hair, that was deliberate, as Caldrion has met very few elves, none of whom were of the black-haired variety. That was an attempt to establish Caldrion as an individual only _slightly_ less ignorant of elves than Graldor. I have clarified that. Thank you much for taking the time to send me these.**

**Dragon-of-the-north**- Thank you for your kind comments. I try to be original, and I'm glad that the person who wrote the highly original "House of the Silver Bow" thought I was as well. The titles were fun but a bit difficult to think up. The original thought that prompted me to start writing this was the question of becoming a wraith, and to do that, I had to write a character I could sympathize with, hence the break from conventional wisdom. I (and you) know where I'm going with this, but I only know part of how I'm going to get there. Hope you enjoy this chapter.

**TreeHugger- Thank you. I tried to capture something of the Sauron who managed to persuade the elves to make the darn rings in the first place and convinced Numenor to commit collective stupicide (stupid+suicide). With Graldor, he doesn't need to be as subtle or smooth, so a bit more of his malice shows through. My guiding principle for this scene was that the Enemy would "seem fairer and feel fouler" than the average traveler. *Sneak preview* In Chapter Five, we're going to find out some of why Sauron picked Graldor as one of the nine, and it's not entirely what Sauron planned. As for Caldrion, we will see… (smiles that malicious smile that comes naturally to certain fanfiction writers). And I'll try to update with frequently, but like all of us, I feed off reviews.**

Wings of the Storm, Chapter II- A Vision for the Future

            Caldrion had not gotten far when Graldor called him over. "Leave the dishes to the others. We need to talk." As they walked out, Graldor motioned to Annatar to follow them. They exited the great hall into the quarters beyond, and proceeded to the last door before Graldor's own chambers. Here Graldor opened the door for Annatar.

            "I trust that these quarters should do. They're the best I have. If you need anything, there are always a few servants around."

            "Thank you, but I doubt I shall need them. It has been some time since I have slept in a real bed, and I expect to sleep like the dead." Saying such words, he stepped into his chamber.

            "Oh, one more thing, sir Annatar," Graldor inquired. "Would you object to our introducing your stallion to some of our mares? He has been through hard times, but he obviously comes from outstanding bloodlines."

            "Ah, you mean Aroch. Yes, it is even rumored that he is descended from the horse of the god who rode about the world before the dawn of men. He does not seem to like me, so he only exerts the kind of effort you saw this afternoon when he is motivated by something other than my prompting, like the oncoming storm. Do you have any horses that you think might serve me better? I would happily exchange Aroch for a less independent steed."

            Caldrion drew in a sharp breath through his teeth. His knowledge of horses wasn't the best, but from what he had seen of this Aroch, he was worth any three or four of Graldor's horses. He couldn't tell if Annatar was naïve with regard to horses or just being generous. Either way, it was certain that Graldor would not turn down that offer.

            "I shall have my strongest riding horse ready for you in the morning," Graldor replied. With that, Annatar entered his room and Caldrion and Graldor proceeded into the private royal sitting room.

            "Well, what do you think? You're a Numenorean, you should have some instinct about this," Graldor said, obviously anxious to hear Caldrion's opinion about Annatar.

            "I don't know what to think. He seems very nice and all that stuff, but there's something that troubles me. I can't put my finger on it, or I would have told you about it during the feast. I just don't know… Speaking of the feast, how did you know he was coming? Because I know you couldn't have had that feast on the table between the time I saw him coming and the time Fremus finally finished."

            Graldor laughed, loud and long. "I don't know. Fremus went on so long I think the cooks could have done it. But I won't lie to you. Today was the feast of St. Beleg." Caldrion paused and wrinkled his eyebrows. Graldor laughed again. "You may be a Numenorean, but you're still young and gullible. No, I won't lie to you. Last night, I had the most vivid dream. I heard a clear, strong voice telling me that the Lord of Gifts was coming, and I saw a lone rider on a black horse approaching Aratur from the east, but instead of a storm he was silhouetted by the rising sun."

            Caldrion uttered, "For someone capable of sending dreams, he sure has a lousy sense of timing."

            "That's what I thought, but when there was no word by noontime, I went ahead and ordered a feast, assuming that if he didn't come I could figure out some kind of a back up story, thus the canonization of Beleg."

            "Beleg?" Caldrion asked. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn't place it.

            "Some character in one of those depressing songs my mom used to sing. I just liked the sound of the name, but since our friend showed up, I didn't have to use it. Just as well, considering someone in this town probably knows who Beleg really was. Anyhow, what do you think of this ring? It's just amazing, isn't it? Being in some kind of superconsciousness, or something, where no one can see you."

            "What do you mean? It made you a little blurry, but that never qualified you as invisible."

            "You mean it doesn't work on you? No one else could see me, though some of them were so drunk they probably thought it was their imaginations." Caldrion shook his head. "Rats," Graldor muttered, "so I _can't use this thing to sneak up on you… Not that I would anyway, of course."_

            "That ring makes you invisible? How could you tell?" Caldrion would have been more vehemently incredulous but for the late hour.

            "Well, aside from the fact that at least half a dozen told me during dessert, when I put the ring on I entered this gray, hazy world. Everything on the table and everyone around it were blurred as though covered in mist, like undefined phantoms. Despite the fogging of my eyesight, I could hear conversations all the way from the kitchen, which is something I could never do before. I felt powerful, as though my own strength had been doubled or tripled. As I looked around, I saw Annatar, clear as day. Where all those beautiful rings had been, there was now only one, an unadorned band of gold. He stretched out his hand toward me, and my hand with the ring was drawn toward his. He was saying something, but it was so quiet even I couldn't hear it. I felt as though I were in a trance, but then I came back to my senses and removed the ring."

            Caldrion contemplated what his lord had said. On the one hand, being in a state where you lack control of your own actions is decidedly a bad thing. On the other hand, there was something enticing about the ability to become invisible. Nevermind the potential childish uses, which Caldrion had only recently learned to dismiss as such and which still enchanted his master. Invisibility could turn Graldor into something approaching a god in combat, and, as Caldrion knew from the smattering of elven history he had learned in Vinyalonde, the presence of one such warrior could have a dramatic effect on the outcome of battle. Maybe Fremus was right. With this ring, perhaps Graldor could become the 'lord of the fertile plains.' "Did Annatar tell you about other men of the plains?"

            "He did, but there wasn't much to say. We are the only permanently inhabited settlement, unless you count a couple tribes living at strong points at the feet of the mountains. Many bands of barbaric nomads roam the region, but little else. On a strategic level, according to Annatar, these plains are good for nothing except for providing an open road from one side of the Misty Mountains to the other. The elves, even if there were enough of them to do so, would have no desire to conquer the area because of its size and its lack of natural defenses and the absence of natural resources. Annatar thought that, over time, this plain could be turned into a highly productive breadbasket, but that would take longer than even your lifetime. Men, unless they planned to create large-scale irrigation and large farming communities, would not settle in large numbers. But the strategic importance is undeniable. Because dwarves control most of the Misty Mountains, the Angren Gap was the only viable way for a large force of orcs to cross the mountains." Graldor's voice began to get louder, as though building toward a climax. Caldrion realized that he needn't have been so angry with Betlin, the boy who had dropped the plates during dinner. Graldor's speech almost certainly came close to being verbatim with what Annatar had said. As Graldor continued, Caldrion made a mental note to apologize to Betlin for being so irate.

            "If a man were to control, and by that I mean politically and militarily, all the territory from the Angren Gap to the Onodlo Delta, he would rank among the most powerful men in Middle-Earth. Were a strong leader to arise among the orcs, this man would be able to demand a very hefty tribute, perhaps even his pick of the plunder, to allow the orcs to cross. If the elves wished to prevent such a crossing, they might offer to use some of their manifold skills to aid his kingdom. Such a kingdom could in time rival the wealth and power of Numenor across the waters." Graldor stopped suddenly and hesitated before continuing. "Annatar told me that this was my destiny, decreed by the Valar and perhaps even in the Song of the Ainur. I was to found the greatest kingdom of men in Middle-Earth, and he would help me do it. I would conquer the plains, defend them, irrigate them, and give them noteworthy civilization. This is my destiny."

            Caldrion had never seen Graldor this worked up about anything this side of a pretty woman, which was saying something. Caldrion was just slightly skeptical. "Sounds great, but how are we going to do it? If nothing else about that plan is intimidating, the manpower we would need to accomplish it is far more than have ever lived on the plains. And the timetable would have to be in hundreds of years. Perhaps Annatar planted this seed in your mind in the hope that Aratur, the only settled town on the plains according to him, would destroy itself trying to accomplish it. As nice as this plan sounds, it is far too grand a thing for us to accomplish during your lifetime, and probably mine as well. If we leave the realm of dreams sent by elf-wizards, we really need to focus on getting a good harvest this year, because without it we probably cannot stay in Aratur."

            "But Annatar said he would help me, so it is possible. Concerning the harvest, he told me that this storm would be the last of its kind for the summer. All the subsequent rains would be gentle, and we will have our best year yet."

            "Sounds good, but how do we know it is true? And even if it is, how does that bring us closer to this outrageous but divinely appointed task?"

            "To your first question… you're right, of course. Just because he can send dreams and give magic rings doesn't mean that his foresight is infallible. But what does it matter? Based on our early indicators, if the plantings survived this storm they should at least be adequate, enough to get us through the winter. If we get any more rain and it doesn't wipe anything out, we should have enough to keep some in our granaries for the subsequent winter, and when that happens, we can finally be assured that this is a permanent, and not a semi-permanent settlement. For manpower, Annatar told me of a new phenomenon: settled orcs. Some of the elves of his nation have run into trouble with them. Apparently, after the last invasion, a substantial number of orc leaders decided to gather in small communities, using human and possibly elven slaves to support their lives of leisure. There are several such communities along the Onodlo to the east and the Great River beyond. If we were to attack these camps, none of which contain more than fifty orcs, we could liberate the slaves and use them to increase our population. Of course, we would have to have a well-trained military force before we could attempt such a thing."

            "Well, training wouldn't be too hard. You have some combat experience, most of the men are at least competent with a sword, and I learned a few tricks from the good people of Vinyalonde. If I were you, I'd let the matter rest at least until next summer. We have to get a good harvest this year, and trying to begin military training will distract people. At most I would grab the best warriors we have and start preparing them to teach the others in the military arts, so that we have a training mechanism in place when we begin. In the meantime I would try to either make or obtain more swords, bows, and arrows. What we have now is not adequate for any extensive campaign. Another thing I might do… introduce Aroch to all the ladies. I had been under the impression that the horse of the god was white, but who am I to question our generous benefactor? Admittedly, I know little of horses, but what I do know is that that is one excellent horse, his lineage notwithstanding, even with possible mistreatment."

            "Mistreatment?" Graldor interrupted.

            "My guess is that because Aroch and Annatar do not get along well, he does not treat the horse as well as he might. You saw how willingly he parted with Aroch. He probably wants a horse that will easily bend to his will, and Aroch probably has a mind of his own in that regard. Anyway, with horses like that, we can have one major advantage over the orcs: cavalry. In these plains, that is a tactical and strategic advantage that will prove immensely helpful if we are to control this region. If we do everything slowly and carefully, we might be able to fulfill Annatar's vision, given a few hundred years."

            "That's about what I was thinking. This is a good plan, and it will work. Thank you, Caldrion, you've answered my question. Now go and get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning."

            As Caldrion walked out of the chamber, he turned back toward Graldor. "One other thing. You should use some of your royal downtime to experiment with that ring. People may be unable to see you, but they might still be able to hear or smell you. If they can, you'll have to learn to negate that so you can use the ring to the fullest advantage on the battlefield."

            "Good idea. Good night."

            Caldrion, despite his fears that he would be unable to sleep as he pondered the events of the day, dozed off rapidly. He spent much of the night, however, dreaming. He saw mounted riders arrayed in the morning sun, fitful glimpses of combat, his lord atop a proud foothill. His vision swirled and blurred, and he watched people- civilians- dying, slain by what he couldn't tell. He perceived screams, and saw a small company riding away from him across the plains. Then all went black. In his subconscious he heard first the thundering of hooves, then the ringing of swords, which faded suddenly into silence, broken by the beating of heavy wings and a piercing shriek, which caused him to bolt upright in panic, sweat dripping from his head and bare chest.


	3. Plowshares to Swords

November 5, 2003. What a great day to be a geek. The Revolution has begun, the new RotK books are out, as is the latest Deryni novel, I get $20 for participating in a short survey for our econ department, and, of course, I've posted a Wings update. Does life get any better?

The usual disclaimer: The world and the orcs aren't mine. Did you even have to ask? All the characters are mine except for Annatar.

Responses to reviewers: I love you all, if only because you took a few precious minutes out of your day to read and review this, and any others who do so will similarly be loved. Also, I've rigged this page so Awrin (the mini-Balrog who adopted me) will hunt down and maim anyone who reads this and fails to submit a review.

**Dragon-of-the-North**- Once again I am awed and humbled by your gracious remarks. Again we see Annatar's skill at manipulating humans- Graldor wants a goal to strive for, and Annatar gives it to him (albeit for his own purposes). Regarding religion, I wanted to create the sense that there was something there (and, based on your comments, I succeeded). Since we don't see anything resembling religion as we know it in Lord of the Rings, I've assumed that the tales of the Valar are widely known but there aren't any ceremonies or organized worship. For Aratur, the gods exist but are distant and not acknowledged regularly. Later on, we'll witness part of a marriage ceremony during which I may explore these issues a bit more. I'm glad you liked this and I hope you enjoy this chapter.

**Greetings from Mordor**- Wow. Thank you so much for these comments. I don't think anything I've written has ever led someone to call me "the ray of hope in a seemingly illiterate world." The Nazgul _are great. Call me geeky; I don't have the figurine, but my copy of LotR is the Nazgul movie cover, my desktops rotate among several shots of them, and my normal AIM icon is the Nazgul in the Shire with the blue light behind. So giving one of them a backstory just came naturally :-)_

**Werecat99**- Thanks for the review. I hope my e-mail answered your questions. Hope you like this chapter.

**Deana Bell**- Thank you. I love that line too. The style changes somewhat in this chapter- more of my own voice shines through (which may or may not be a good thing). 

A Note on the Orcs: I've taken a few liberties with orcs in this chapter. My first assumption stems out of the disposition of Sauron's orcs at times other than large-scale war. I can't see keeping a huge orc army in one place during lengthy times of peace (if for no other reasons than the supply problems and the likelihood of infighting in the absence of an exterior foe), and I can't see needing the whole army to 'keep the peace' in conquered lands, particularly in thinly populated areas like Calenardhon. So I've decided, for the purposes of this fanfic, that after the war is over some orcs are retained for communications, garrisons, or similar duties and some disband, settling in small bands at various places where there are sufficient food supplies, much as humans do. As a follow-up to that assumption, I've conjectured that orcs, much like humans, adapt to their surroundings and that such adaptations may supercede the genetic tendencies of the race. In this case, the orcs who settled near the river (because of the plentiful game, both in terms of fish and mammals that drink at the river) would adapt some tolerance of sunlight so they could hunt and fish (and thus fight) at dawn and dusk.

Also, there is a small tribute in this chapter to the great TreeHugger, whose humorous tales of elves are positively hilarious.

Wings of the Storm, Chapter III- Plowshares to Swords

            In the morning, Annatar departed without incident, astride one of Graldor's horses.

[At this point my father would get this contorted expression on his face, which in some stories signified that it was time for us to go to bed before he told us something inappropriate for young ears, but in this story merely meant that much time had passed, mostly filled with boring or irrelevant incidents (the former would come later). Using the plan of Graldor and the rest of the story that he told as a guide, I have attempted to recreate, in brief, the events that happened during this gap in time.]

            Much to Caldrion's surprise, Annatar was highly accurate as a weather forecaster. In a part of the world that, in Caldrion's experience, almost never had rain in the summer outside of storms, this summer included several gentle, long-lasting rains, similar to those which typified the winters, but warmer.

            One day shortly before the harvest, the watchman Deol suddenly awoke to find a band of perhaps two dozen orcs slinking through the fields, apparently bearing heavy items. Proceeding to the palace, he roused Caldrion, who in turn roused Graldor, before the three of them roused about ten others, all of whom quickly prepared for battle. All were armed with swords and protected by at least some armor. They observed that the orcs were now close to the east-facing gate, so Graldor elected to put on his magic ring and hasten to attack the orcs while Deol, leading the rest, advanced slowly (Graldor either hadn't noticed or hadn't cared that Deol had been asleep on his watch). The result of the combat was predictable- upon seeing this clearly outnumbered human band advancing toward them, the orcs cast off their heavy baggage and ran to engage the men. They were only halfway there when Graldor, visible only to Caldrion, burst in their midst, slaying several of them and throwing the rest into utter confusion, making them easy for the others to dispose of. The jubilation of the band, having tasted battle and victory for the first time in several years, could only have been heightened by the discovery that the discarded baggage was full of weapons and armor, some of it of higher quality than typical orc arms.

            Graldor took his victory and the spoils thereof as signs of some divine favor. After all, the most immediate problem with the plan for conquering the plains was acquiring the arms necessary to attack the settled orcs. Therefore, when winter came, Graldor began the first phase of his plan and trained the band that had fought that day to be the elite fighters who would train and lead the others.

            Training of the full force, which would consist of one hundred and fifty men, began in the spring. As the summer progressed, they became a lean, mean fighting force, as they demonstrated against a small group of nomadic warriors that passed too close to Aratur. Among the captives from that fight was Sirgo, a man revered by the nomads for his prophetic powers. Despite Caldrion's advice to the contrary, Graldor made Sirgo one of his advisors, and at his advice gave the other captives their freedom, though they all elected to settle in the city. One of them, Frealine, would join the leadership of the 'Grand Army of Aratur,' as Fremus had styled it, and would prove to be as knowledgeable in military affairs as anyone else in the force.

            With the summer about half gone, a turning point was reached. Both Graldor and Caldrion wished to take the army out and begin campaigning against the settled orcs, but Frealine and Sirgo, who had approached these orcs during his travels, suggested that they wait until next year. There were more settlements along the near Onodlo than could be dealt with before winter, and if all the orcs were not slain in one season, the others would appeal for help to their brethren further to the east, who could come in force and perhaps even destroy Aratur. Caldrion, though miffed when Graldor conceded, did succeed in persuading Graldor to use the extra time to form a band of cavalry riding the progeny of Aroch.

            Training continued through the winter, following another good harvest. In the spring, it was time for the campaign to get underway, but another disagreement arose. Caldrion wanted to leave only a small contingent, ten or twenty soldiers, to defend Aratur, while Sirgo felt it wiser to leave fifty behind, feeling that one hundred should be more than enough to clean out the successive bands of orcs. Sirgo, much to Caldrion's chagrin, prevailed, and Deol was left behind as regent in Graldor's absence.

            [At this point, I return to the words of my father, as best I can remember them.]

            After a day's march following the stream east from Aratur, the army camped outside a patch of woods growing along the stream. Frealine figured, from his previous experience, that a day's journey around the woods would bring them to the Onodlo, where he thought there was an orcish settlement. So it was that the next evening, the Onodlo came into view, and there on its banks sat a number of rude huts, surrounded by an even ruder stockade. Graldor, as was becoming his custom, consulted Sirgo, Frealine, and Caldrion as to what to do. Should he attack now, using his advantage of surprise but risking confusion in the darkness, or should he wait until morning, and if so, where should he camp? Caldrion proposed a devious solution: send Graldor, with his magic ring, to sneak into the city after nightfall, where he could open the gate of the stockade, allowing the troops in. They could quickly slay the orcs, free the slaves, and spend the next day behind the protection of this settlement. Frealine, much to Graldor's astonishment, agreed with Caldrion, but Sirgo, to no one's surprise, proposed an alternative plan.

            "If in stealth and treachery we deal, then disaster shall befall, for the stealthy are easily out-stealthed." Caldrion and Graldor exchanged glances. Clearly Sirgo, the brilliant prophet of the nomads, had a plan that, though it would not appear so, was far more plausible than Caldrion's idea. "As we approached, I took the liberty of accompanying Neblis and the cavalry as they scouted the region. Northwest of the orcs are two gently sloping ridges running northeast to southwest between the river and the woods, with a low floodplain between. Rather than attempt to attack tonight, we should camp on the northernmost of these ridges, with the infantry divided in two groups, perhaps led by Caldrion and Frealine, but the fires should be concentrated between the groups, so it appears that there is one camp instead of two. Neblis and the cavalry ought to camp, without fires, on the back slope of the first ridge." Sirgo's eyes suddenly glazed over, as though he were in a trance. He continued, "The orcs will see our fires, but they will not attempt to attack us tonight, but rather wait until dawn tomorrow. They will charge up the first ridge and across the first flood plain, heading directly toward the gap between our camps. Both wings will attack, catching the orcs in their flank, and as they attempt to pull back, Neblis will ride forth, and we will slay them all." Eyebrows were raised. Caldrion, perhaps because of his growing dislike of Sirgo, scowled, but Frealine and Graldor were clearly sold on the plan. Neblis was called in, wholeheartedly approved, and made ready to inform his cavalry. Caldrion and Frealine went out to divide the troops, and the camps were made as Sirgo had instructed. Across the field, the orcs saw the fires, and pondered, if orcs indeed ponder such things, what strange beings would so brazenly build a camp that close to the fort of the feared Uruk and their lord, Lurgk, overseer of the scum, humans and elves, slaves to the orcs just as the orcs were, in name if no longer in fact, only slaves of the Great Lord of Mordor. They would die, but Lurgk, being occupied in what could only be described as 'other affairs,' had determined that they should wait until morning.

            Before dawn crept above the horizon, its golden tendrils caressing the lightening sky, the foul orcs, Lurgk at their head, came forth, anticipating a morning of swift victory and more slaves to abuse. They were a far more substantial band than Graldor had anticipated, outnumbering his own troops, perhaps by as much as two to one. As the orcs ascended the first ridge, heading toward the site where they had seen smoke rise the night before, a solitary human figure appeared at the crest of the second ridge. The rising sun glinted off his armor, almost blinding a few of the orcs despite their growing tolerance for sunlight. A guttural rumble arose from them, and Lurgk growled at this man. He seemed strong, of a dark but healthy complexion, and he would be a most excellent slave if he could be taken alive. Lurgk hesitated, and opened his mouth to try to offer surrender to this foolhardy human. As if in answer to that unspoken thought, the man drew his sword and held it before him. Lurgk hesitated no longer but, with his weapon before him, broke into a run on the downward slope of the ridge. His orcs, though settled, still remembered how to fight, and hastened to follow him. As quickly as the charge began, however, it paused, as their quarry disappeared before their eyes. Suddenly, the ridge before them, both to the left and right, was ablaze with a flash of arms, and two small groups of men came flying down toward the orcs. Without hesitation, having quickly forgotten their surprise at the disappearance of the man, the orcs shifted, turning to meet the new foes. The two sides clashed and vigorously fought. The humans, who had superior armor, weaponry, and training, seemed to have the upper hand. That apparent upper hand was only enhanced by a sudden disruption in the midst of the orcs. Many an orc squealed in unpleasant surprise as they saw one of their comrades lose his head so cleanly that one might imagine that his body had decided to proceed in one direction and his head in another. As this proceeded to happen to several others in that area, the orcs muttered a collective 'oh, crap,' or rather the Black Speech equivalent thereof, and the thoughts of many began to turn longingly toward their safe abodes just over the ridge. [Note: I only heard my father tell this part of the story quite this way once, shortly before he finished his fourth mug of ale (or was it Vandal Root tea?). However, I like it and think it significantly adds to the entertainment value of the entire experience, so I have kept it.]

            It was in this moment that Lurgk, in a rare fit of orcish intelligence, put two and two together and concluded that the solitary man must have somehow become invisible and was actively cleaving off the heads of his orcs. And not just his orcs, but the others who had come a fair distance when the river swelled with the spring thaw, sent under orders to join up with Lurgk and others of the settled Uruk to participate in an attack directed further west. Lurgk, in a rare show of inspiration, turned and proceeded left across the battlefield, moving toward the location of the unseen assailant.

            Elsewhere, the men of Aratur were holding their own. Frealine, after making initial contact, had formed a solid front, knowing that allowing his men to advance individually would result in far more casualties than necessary. He knew it would not be long before Neblis and the cavalry charged along his flank, freeing him and his men to complete the slaughter at a more leisurely pace. Across the way, Caldrion was making no such attempts at organization because, in addition to his own inexperience as a commander, he felt he had to drive the orcs away from the river so they would fully feel the force of the horse-borne tide that would soon emerge opposite. Additionally, Caldrion followed the progress of Graldor, who had certainly given the orcs far more than they bargained for. All of them seemed to be moving away from his last strike, hesitating in fear and doubt as they withdrew. All except one… a nasty-looking Uruk who seemed as though he were seeking the invisible man who menaced his troops. Caldrion drew a sharp breath. Could this orc perhaps see Graldor as he did? But no, that was impossible, as evidenced by the fact that the orc was randomly stabbing the air in front of him with his sword. However, Graldor was facing the other way, and might well be caught from behind…

            Lurgk was startled as the next orc lost his head. He had to find this unseen assailant. The newly severed head was falling to the left of the body, so the blow had come from right about…there. He looked down. A footprint, with too light a step to be an orc. He looked forward. In this amount of time, a man could have gotten to about…there, and behold, there were two indentations in the ground, as there would be if one stood there, except none did. Lurgk berated himself for not seeing it before. He proceeded toward the spot. There that man must be. He had appeared about Lurgk's height, which would put his neck…right about there. Lurgk drew back his sword, about to lop off one more head in this black and bloody plain. He had solved the mystery. He would end it here…

            Graldor whirled about as he heard a distinctly orcish bellow right next to his ear. There was this mighty Uruk, the one he had spotted for their leader, and, unless he was greatly mistaken, that was a swordpoint sticking out of its chest.

            Caldrion withdrew his sword. Before he could strike again, however, the orc spun around. Though in obvious pain, the orc lashed out with a vicious knee to the groin that sent Caldrion flying backwards. Lurgk, his invisible nemesis forgotten, drew his sword above his head, intending to use what remained of his strength to slay his killer.

            Graldor, however, had not forgotten about Lurgk. He severed the orc's right arm, then head, then left arm with one sweeping stroke. Graldor then stepped over the body of the orc and extended arm to help the winded Caldrion. As he got up, they all heard a thundering of hooves as Neblis and Sirgo charged onto the scene. The rout quickly became a massacre as the humans made short work of the surviving orcs. The cavalry pursued the last orcs as they fled toward the river, and then turned back to meet the rest of the men, now reforming around the center of the field. Sirgo seemed to be taking charge of the situation.

            "Now there may still be a few orcs in the settlement. We should enter in an orderly and prepared fashion, and maintain ranks until we have ascertained what remains. There were far more orcs than there should have been, and we should try to take any we find alive so that we may question them. I want no plundering or any such nonsense."

            "At least until we've killed the rest of the orcs" Graldor muttered, miffed that Sirgo was taking charge of the situation rather than differing to him, and also perhaps anticipating that Sirgo would prevent the kind of chaos in which he could introduce himself to his choice of the female slaves. He caught Caldrion's eyes, which clearly said, "I told you so," before turning to a grouping of perhaps a dozen infantry. "You all, start going through these orcs. Take useable weaponry, armor, supplies, anything that could be of use, and then pile the bodies somewhere. Put any wounded out of their misery." With that, Graldor led the rest of his force into the settlement. The Grand Army of Aratur had won its first engagement.


	4. Hell Hath No Fury

Disclaimer: The world, the orcs, etc. are not mine but Graldor, Caldrion, etc. are mine. Somehow I like to imagine that you all would know that already, but if you didn't, you do now. As with the Vandal Root tea in the last chapter, this chapter utilizes a joke about Arwen and Glorfindel that, I am told, belongs to alliwantisanelfforchristmas.

Responses to my two very kind reviewers, whose reviews are most appreciated by this poor, unworthy fanfic writer.

**TreeHugger**: I wouldn't call you slupid- you were the first reviewer for Ch. III and, let's face it, in fanficland, I don't care when someone reviews as long as they do. You've nailed Graldor's (and human) nature perfectly. Chilling but seductive- I need to remember that; it describes the Nazgul in a nutshell. Ah, the ring. It'll take awhile to really get to Graldor, but it has already begun. Everything is fortuitous for awhile… but it can't last forever. Graldor isn't as good as Elrond at picking advisors (note Fremus), and they won't be making his life as easy as they should. Ah, Sirgo- a mystery wrapped in an enigma with a side of ambiguity (or something like that :-) Alright! I actually succeeded in establishing some tension with the Lurgk scene. Thanks for giving up your evening to read all this stuff.

**Dragon-of-the-north**: Everything happens for a reason. Some are more obvious than others. Regarding the nomads, see what I told TreeHugger about Sirgo. Glad you liked the battle description- such things are tough to write. Ooh, you liked my realistic detail about Graldor's, um, drive. We'll get more of that and more exploration of the moral angle in the next two chapters. I'm glad you liked the orcs- I was quite worried that some people would take offense that I gave them some 'humanity' and you wouldn't think I'd given them enough. Thank you.

Wings of the Storm, Chapter IV- Hell Hath No Fury…

[I have often wondered why my father ever told us this story. It is true that I enjoyed it, and that it does teach an important lesson about greed, ambition, and misplaced trust, but it is also very adult just in terms of its general subject matter. And specific parts are not at all for young children. Most of the events in this chapter were either glossed over or not mentioned at all in the three or four times I heard this story before reaching adulthood. Like my father's statements about the orcs' reaction to the invisible Graldor, I heard this part told this way only once, when he retold this story one last time before he left so that I could eventually replicate it for my own children. This part of the account unquestionably contains subjects (the foul tongues of orcs and the post-battle lust of warriors) that I would not tell to young children, but for the purposes of recording this tale as something possibly approaching history, they are necessary to fulfill the complete meaning of the story.]

            Other than the invading army, which held remarkable order considering that it had just won an impressive victory, nothing stirred within the walls. For a fleeting moment, Caldrion feared that the slaves had been slaughtered. There was no blood or other signs of a struggle, however, and there had been no non-orcs present among the enemy ranks, so that at least was not a possibility. Sirgo leaned over, as though to advise Graldor, but Graldor, still smarting from the usurpation of his authority, instead proclaimed his presence to any beings in the huts. "I am Graldor, King of Aratur. I hereby claim this… settlement as part of my domain. Any enslaved in this place are hereby liberated, and made citizens of Aratur."

            A few weak cheers emanated from the huts, but there was otherwise no reaction. Graldor, ignoring Frealine's restraining arm, drew his sword and proceeded to the nearest hut. Within the dirt-floored structure, all but completely devoid of ornamentation, he found two men of about his age, clad in decaying garments and bound by straps of cloth. Both seemed skinny, though not terribly emaciated, but they looked quite faint, as though they had been recently beaten and/or had not eaten in a few days. As his advisors entered the tent behind him, Graldor, his face contorted in disgust, drew his dagger and sliced through the bonds. Neither slave showed serious signs of moving until one of them brought his head up slowly and muttered, in a barely audible voice, "Thank you." Graldor looked over his shoulder. "Neblis, have one of the men bring some food and water." As Neblis moved to obey, Graldor, after taking one last glimpse at the beneficiaries of his efforts, turned around and stalked out of the hut.

            Graldor then addressed his troops, who had patiently waited outside. "Break into small groups and go to each hut. Cut the slaves loose and give them some food and water. When they are in a position to talk, gather whatever information you can from them. Report any significant findings to Sirgo." Then, in a lower tone, "Caldrion, come with me." The first hut the two of them entered was empty, but the second, right up against the river, contained what Graldor sought.

            She was a young human lady, but if not for the rounded ears she could have passed as an elf. She had blonde hair approaching waist length. Her features were angular, casting half-shadows across her face in the dim light of the hut. Caldrion did not find her especially attractive, but then that was probably just as well. The disheveled state of her rags left little to Graldor's imagination, and as she looked up and met his eyes, it was as clear to her as to him what he intended to do. He was tall, strong, and handsome, though sweaty and with a face slightly contorted by lust, but he didn't look a day over twenty-five, despite the fact that he had passed that particular milestone almost ten years ago. Without so much as a whimper, she lowered her face in acceptance.

            That was all the encouragement Graldor needed, though at this point, fresh off his first serious battle since the founding of Aratur, he probably didn't need any. As he knelt to loose her hands, he addressed Caldrion, who was still standing behind him, without looking at him. "It just occurred to me… We haven't found out what our own casualties were. Why don't you go find those out for me and see that our wounded are taken care of? After you do that, have Neblis organize a watch on the stockade and then find out from Sirgo if we've learned anything useful."

            Caldrion nodded and wordlessly departed. Being unfamiliar with women, he did not realize that Graldor's orders were cover for more sinister actions rather than merely normal, if forgotten, post-battle commands. He proceeded forth, still trying to come to terms with what was his first real combat experience, and was wondering who in this company was best equipped to deal with the wounded when he almost literally ran into another man. Caldrion, shaking his head, reasserted his air of superiority. "Watch where you're going" he said, at almost the same time as the other said the exact same thing. Caldrion looked up, ready to chastise the soldier for rudeness to one of his commanders, and saw that the man was not a soldier but Neblis, commander of the cavalry.

            Before he could mutter an apology, however, Neblis opened his mouth. "Pardon me, Caldrion. You seem a bit preoccupied. Do you know Lord Graldor's whereabouts? I have a preliminary casualty report for him."

            "Oh, good. That's one of the things he sent me to do. How do they look?"

            "Pretty good. Of our hundred, four are dead, and another three are hurt critically and may or may not survive. Of the rest, few are without cuts or scratches or bruises of some sort, but none are incapacitated."

            "That's better than I might have expected, considering how many of those bastards we faced. Do you have any idea how many that might have been?"

            "There were about eight score, but only three score or so were well equipped, which explains why they gave us so little trouble. Of course, without Graldor and that magic ring of his, things would have been much uglier."

            "Speaking of Graldor, he wanted me to ask you to organize a watch on the…"

            "…stockade. Already done."

            "One less thing for me to deal with. Would you mind coming with me to see if Sirgo has discovered anything noteworthy? He doesn't particularly like me at the moment."

            "I would do so happily, but it looks like Frealine may have already anticipated your inquiry," Neblis stated as Frealine made his way toward the two of them.

            "Where is Graldor? Sirgo needs to talk with him straightaway. The situation may be more complicated than we thought," Frealine uttered, his voice conveying an urgency that seemed unnecessary in the aftermath of such a decisive victory. It was also a tone that would brook no resistance, especially considering that Caldrion was younger than both these men and was sufficiently unsure of his own standing that he would willingly defer to either Frealine or Neblis. Neither of them rubbed Caldrion the wrong way like Sirgo did.

            Caldrion naively led the two of them back to the hut from which he had just recently emerged and quickly learned quite a bit more about Graldor's motivation. What few rags the girl had been wearing lay beside her, and what looked like a new rip clearly pointed to Graldor's role in her unclad state. Graldor himself was in the process of liberating his manhood from beneath his clothing and armor. As the three subordinates entered, Graldor almost turned all the way around to confront the intruders and then, realizing that he was partially liberated, elected only to turn his head to see Caldrion within the hut and the heads of Neblis and Frealine peeking over Caldrion's shoulders. Caldrion's mouth was agape in shock and surprise, Frealine had a sly look that seemed to indicate both approval of the lady and disapproval of the man; and Neblis appeared to be genuinely appalled and disgusted. As the two groups wordlessly stared at each other, the woman decided that she probably ought not to be naked in front of these other men and so scrambled to restore her rags. Her movement drew Graldor out of his indignant silence. "What do you want that couldn't have waited?" he muttered, before turning back to address his own state of exposure.

            "I'm sorry, sir," said Frealine, "but Sirgo needs to see you right away, before this wounded orc meets his maker."

            Graldor glared at him, but the moment for action, at least in this hut, had clearly passed. Shooting the woman a glance that said 'I'll be back later to finish the job,' Graldor got up and stormed out of the hut, biting back furious words against his squire. How did Caldrion not know about such important facts of life? As he stepped back into the sunlight, he decided that soon, perhaps after the next battle, he would have to address that deficiency in Caldrion's education.

            Caldrion and Frealine, seeing the murder in Graldor's eyes, turned and followed him, but Neblis remained behind. As soon as the others were out of earshot, he put a cloak around the girl's shoulders and led her to the hut where many former slaves were gathering for rations and interviews.

            As Graldor, Caldrion, and Frealine approached, Sirgo turned back to the orc lying at his knees. "Repeat for them what you just told me." The orc glared back at Sirgo as the others came around and stood over him. He wanted to defy this pompous man, but he had already spilled his guts once, figuratively, and if he did so again they might give him the coup before he spilled his guts literally from a nasty stomach wound. With a sharp intake of breath, he began. "The reason there were so many of us was there was a group of maybe fifty orcs that came from further east, Mordor perhaps, (cough) about a week ago. I never got a (cough) chance to talk to them, but the rumor was they were sent, and we were to join them, to go (cough) west and capture some king or something and take him back east."

            "_Who_ were they supposed to capture?" This from Caldrion.

            "_What_ king?" Frealine. 

Graldor just stared, wondering why this was worth getting him away Jesseor.

            "That's all I know, except that you sure scared the (cough) shit out of us this morning with that ring in your pocket, and (cough) that you'd better get back to (cough) Jess before too long. Wow, that (cough) bitch had a mind of her own. She's some fun, though."

            The orc's cough was cut off by the sudden appearance of Graldor's knife at its throat. Before anyone else could move, Graldor had drawn the knife across. "Go to hell, you dirty orc!" he spat, and spun his heels in the other direction.

            Sirgo stared angrily at Graldor's back. "Damn that man's impatience," he muttered. "We could have perhaps pried more information out of him." Then he turned to Frealine. "Who's Jess?"

            But Frealine and Caldrion were looking at each other, as though reading each other's thoughts. "How did that orc even know that Graldor was with a girl, nevermind specifically who?" said the former, but the latter uttered "Forget the girl. How did he know that Graldor had used a ring to become invisible? Even knew that he keeps it in his pocket!" They looked at each other again, and then, as one, turned to Sirgo, who by his expression had answered his question about Jess.

            "I don't have any answers. I might, were it not for our precipitous friend, but who knows? There may be other orcs. I know it was Graldor they were supposed to go after, but he needs to hear that from the lips of an orc before he will understand. He has great ambitions, but along with great ambitions come great enemies, against which he must arm himself. But he will not accept that until one of those enemies declares himself to his face, which is what this orc could not, or would not, do. Well, there will be others, if not in this camp then in the next."

            The remainder of the day was spent gathering information, nursing the wounded and the slaves, and preparing the settlement for full occupation that night. As dusk fell, everyone gathered around a bonfire to eat the closest thing to a celebratory feast that the troops could manage. The liberated slaves were given a more detailed report of the town of Aratur and the invitation to reside there if they so chose or to join the army. There were, indeed, a couple of much-abused elves among the slaves, though, at this point, neither were in much of a state to do anything but sleep to recover.

            Several of the huts had been cleared out enough for human use. Neblis and Caldrion would share one, Frealine and Sirgo another, and Graldor got one for himself, though all of them knew he would not be alone. Sirgo had prevailed on Graldor to keep the troops away from the female slaves for that night, because most were still recovering from the abuse they took, but he made no attempt to stop Graldor from taking Jesseor, knowing that such a fight would only lead to a longer-lasting conflict between them. However, Neblis, having already made his feelings on the matter known, pursued Graldor all the way to his hut, trying, without success, to persuade him to leave the girl alone. When they reached the hut, Graldor went in without looking at Neblis, but the girl gave him a nasty look before following her partner into the darkened hut.

            Sometime during the middle of the night, Caldrion awoke to the sound of low voices talking heatedly around the smoldering ashes at the center of the camp. He recognized one as Neblis, but he could not identify the other voice, which came as little more than a whisper through the still night. Both voices grew silent, and he heard footsteps coming toward the hut, presumably Neblis. There was a sudden metallic **_thwack_ followed by a sickening thud. Caldrion bolted upright and strode out of the hut.**

            In the flickering light, he observed a very strange sight. Neblis lay on the ground on the near side of the fire. The girl, Jess, stood on the far side, breathing heavily and leaning on a shovel. If she saw him she gave no notice. She was naked. Caldrion overlooked that at first, staring at the shovel. "A shovel? Where had she gotten a shovel?" he thought. "And come to that, how is she strong enough to hit Neblis with it?" He started to move toward her, but she pulled up her hand, looking at something in her palm, at the same time letting the shovel fall to the ground.

            As she stood, bathed in the warm light and shifting shadows, Caldrion began to see what Graldor had liked. His eyes were drawn to the lovely curves of her breasts and hips, and as his loins tightened he understood the sour look Graldor had given him earlier. Without even thinking, he proceeded slowly toward her, his eyes, indeed his entire being, focused only on the wonders of her torso. He stopped only a few feet from her, when she looked up from her hand and finally saw him. Their eyes might have met, but at her movement his eyes shifted to look at another of her curves… the one sitting in the palm of her hand. It was silver, with what looked like an emerald- Graldor's invisibility ring. 

            And that quickly he forgot all about the lovely woman in front of him. From the first time he saw it, he had wanted it like nothing else, but he had never seen it outside of Graldor's reach, and his devotion was sufficient to keep his desire in check and unacknowledged consciously. Not tonight. Tonight he could take the ring, disappear, and go north, east, south, somewhere away from everything, away from Vinyalonde, where the Numenoreans had stifled his desire to live free, away from Aratur, where the ignoble nobles saw him as a stupid, foreign boy despite the fact that he was closer to thirty than twenty, away from this army, where Sirgo rejected every brilliant idea he had. For the first time in his life, true freedom to be his own ruler was within his grasp. It was that simple. Just take the ring (the girl had already spent whatever resistance was in her) put it on, and go. _But what about Graldor?_ asked the still, small voice in his head. _What happened to loyalty?_ "Bugger Graldor," he muttered, as he reached out to take the ring from her hand.

            A blood-curdling war cry rent the air, halting Caldrion in his tracks. Before the girl could even turn in the direction of the cry the sword cleaved through her neck. As her head fell bloodily to the ground, the dispassionate part of Caldrion's brain noted that her face had not even had time to register surprise.

            Even before the decapitated body could fall, Graldor had reached out to take his stolen ring from the now dead hand. As several others began to run toward the fire in response to Graldor's yell, he leaned over and spoke quietly but angrily to Caldrion. "The orc was right. That bitch stole my ring while I was sleeping" Then, as Caldrion chuckled darkly, he continued, "I never thought I'd live to see the night I was praising an orc rather than a woman… Well, damn, she hit Neblis too. He was right, but for the wrong reasons… Now, I killed her trying to defend Neblis. You need say nothing of the ring to anybody. Oh, and when he comes, tell Sirgo to look after Neblis."

            "Understood, my King," replied Caldrion, cursing the weakness and disloyalty he had so willingly contemplated just minutes before.

            Then Graldor straightened up, his face a mask that only barely hid the blood wrath still simmering within him, turned back toward his hut, and, with a call of "Goodnight" to all the puzzled soldiers standing round, slipped on the ring and melted back into the darkness from whence he had come.


	5. Who Wrote the Book?

(A/N: Annatar, orcs, the geography, and anything else in here that you've heard of outside this story belongs to Tolkien. Caldrion, Graldor, and the rest of the original characters and locations are mine.)

Review responses:

**Dragon-of-the-north**- Glad you liked my microcosm of small things seeming important. Of course, to Annatar, it's the small things that _are_ important… And, just to keep things humble, the pronouns were unintentional or at least unconscious, but I'm glad they worked.

**TreeHugger**- I forgive you for the belated review since you updated 'Elrond's Birthday.' I just want to say right now that it is only coincidence that this chapter of _Wings was posted around the same time as that chapter of _Halls_. This had been written for some time but I was waiting to post in hopes of picking up more reviewers, while the _Halls_ chapter was posted immediately after it was written. Glad I surprised you. I'm not sure how long the ring will continue to play tug-of-war with Graldor, but you can bet it has him for the moment._

**Greetings from Mordor**- I often try too hard to be realistic, but I'm glad that my effort is paying off. Disregard for human life is, without question, an important part of being a Nazgul. The wraithing process is an ongoing thing, but it has begun, precious, oh yes, it has begun. Sorry that this isn't a real action chapter, but there will be more fighting in time.

Wings of the Storm, Chapter V- Who Wrote the Book?

            [This chapter opens with a story along the same lines as those in the previous chapter. My father added a number of notes in this regard during his final retelling of the tale.]

The campaign along the Onodlo continued without significant difficulties. It turned out to be a relatively short affair. Among the information Sirgo had gleaned from wounded orcs was relatively precise locations of other orc encampments on this side of the river. None were more than two or three days' march away, so the first town was adopted as a temporary base, housing the wounded and those recovering from their imprisonment, and defended by able-bodied former captives. Officially, it was Rivertown. Off the record, and far more commonly, it was known as New Aratur, the Orc Haven, or, among the soldiers, Graldor's Brothel. The events of the first night had grown with the telling, generally becoming more ribald, to the point where some were claiming that the girl's head had become detached from her body during… um… the act, the sight of which knocked that obnoxious disciplinarian Neblis out. Whatever the tale, the soldiers developed more respect for their leader on account of his… er… non-military prowess.

            Beyond Rivertown, victories came easily. None of the other orc settlements could be called much more than camps. In all cases, the Araturians had the advantages in numbers, training, equipment (since they needed to reuse only the best arms of their foes), and surprise. And, of course, Graldor's ring, which he used at every opportunity. The latest rumor was that Graldor, following the confused affair during his first night at his Brothel, had even worn his ring during lovemaking.

            After one victory, the Araturians struck a goldmine. Their overreaching goal remained the acquisition of new citizens, and this camp had many more prisoners than orcs in it. So it was that, having slaughtered said orcs, Graldor and Caldrion entered one tent as twilight approached and met two lovely maids, bound back to back.

            "Ooh. I've been meaning to do this for some time, but tonight we shall address the glaring deficiency in your education." Caldrion opened his mouth to speak, but Graldor cut him off and continued as he drew a knife (taken from an orc who was now fertilizing the plains) and began cutting the girls loose. "Now the last… come to that, the only time we touched on this issue in our manifold discourses, you said that you were a virgin. I'm assuming, based on your actions at the Orc Haven several weeks ago, that you remain… uninitiated in the ways of women." He grinned slyly at the ladies. "We ought to change that."

            Now freed, the women stood up and began surveying their self-interested liberators. Caldrion again started to speak, but stopped as his eyes began to evaluate the females. One was a blonde, but with a darker, silvery twinge compared to Jesseor's golden radiance and, unlike that ill-fated woman, this one would never be mistaken for an elf, what with her substantial chest and thick waist (both understatements, he thought). His mind wandered to the word Yilisond, one of the soldiers, had used when describing another freed captive around the campfire several nights ago. Voluptuous, he had said. That, Caldrion decided, would fit. Like her body, her face was round and pudgy rather than elongated and, as with Jesseor, he did not find her very attractive initially.

            On the other hand, there was the other. Her face was gentle and pretty, looking like soft flesh, rather than Jesseor's carved wood or the voluptuous one's wet clay. Her shoulder-length brown hair completed the effect. With a head like that, her body was an afterthought, though both the small breasts and slim, but not emaciated, form that he discerned from beneath her garments appealed.

            Graldor watched Caldrion's face as he appraised the ladies. "Well, we are in agreement on who should be your teacher. I'll take the blonde; you can have the brunette. I hope you can figure out what body parts go where, and if not, I'm sure she'll help you." As both girls giggled at this exchange, Caldrion blushed furiously, anger at his master's condescension mingling with his embarrassment. As he mumbled "I know _how_ to do it" under his breath, Graldor declared "There. That's settled" and, as an afterthought, "I'm Graldor, King of Aratur, and this is Caldrion, my friend and squire."

            "Farvas, and my sister Blutith," said the brunette, moving toward Caldrion as smoothly and calmly as if she were taking an afternoon stroll.

            Caldrion was thinking furiously. In Vinyalonde, there had been this institution called marriage. He had never been to the ritual, and hadn't cared much besides, but he did remember that couples in love became married and thereby set apart from others and that the act which he was about to commit, at Graldor's goading, was something frowned upon outside of marriage by Numenoreans and, by logical extension, so he thought, the elves about which he knew so little but admired nonetheless. And there was also love, which he was not sure he had ever experienced. Did he love Farvas? How could he know when he knew nothing more than her name? No, he should not, would not do this. He could not take that step with a total stranger.

            "Graldor, it's not as though I'm scared or anything, but I just don't think it's right, somehow. Cumbin back at Vinyalonde told me that there was something… special between men and women. Something that should wait until you have found the woman to whom you want to commit substantially more than one night. I don't want to use women as you do, a different one each night, sometimes not even knowing her name. I want something serious, where I can care as much about her personality, her soul, as her body, where I truly love her and she me. I'm sorry, but I won't do this. Not tonight."

            Blutith's face was alight with amusement. Graldor gave Caldrion a contemptuous look mingled with spiteful condescension and a hint of regret. As Blutith wrapped her arms around Graldor, Caldrion led Farvas out of the tent.

            As soon as they were out, she pulled out his grasp and delivered a slap across his cheek with great force as only a spurned woman can. "I have never been so insulted in my life. How can you not find me attractive?"

            "I didn't say that," Caldrion protested, quailing before this furious woman. "I find you very attractive. I believe that I might love you, and I really want to get to know you."

            Another slap, for the entertainment of the soldiers beginning to gather around this scene. "_I really want to get to know you_," she mimicked. "I thought you wanted to _know me. Is your king the only man around here?" she asked the setting sun. Then she spotted Halin, a tall, handsome, non-Numenorean contemporary of Caldrion, among the soldiers and, with a deliberate and violent toss of her hair, she walked over and led him away for the night. Caldrion just stood there, stunned and wondering what it was that had hit him._

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            Elsewhere, on that same night, a timid cough brought the Ruler of All he Surveyed out of his musings. "My lord, bad news from Calenardhon. Ugvin's mission to capture the human chief was defeated before it could really begin. Details are sketchy, as there were no survivors from the battle scene, but it seems likely that the target of the mission was responsible for its defeat. It appears that…"

            Annatar, as he was known to the target in question, cut the orc off. As if he didn't know already. As if the Lord of the Earth needed a messenger to tell him the great events in his realm. "I know what happened. Dismissed."

            With a shallow bow, the orc exited, but his master had already turned back, watching the last pale rays of sunlight play off the clouds in the west, his mind already returning to his previous string of thoughts.

            Events were not going entirely as he expected, but he was largely making this up as he went along. He was doing something his master had never attempted, had never thought to attempt. His master had failed because he had put his trust in imperfect minions and ambitious men. He would succeed and conquer this Middle-earth because he trusted only himself. His greatest minion was one with his spirit, and it was in the process of gathering powerful minions of its own. _Ash nazg thrakatuluk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul_.

            But that was not working as perfectly as it might have. One had sworn fealty the same day he received his ring. He would remain in place for a time, bringing many lands into his lord's service. Another had been swiftly drawn to his master, and was fast becoming the mighty servant his master had hoped for. Three others had been taken by orc expeditions; two were present already, the third was still in transit from the distant east.

            Three were with him, a fourth was on the way, and the fifth was actively doing his will. But the others were proving more difficult. Was there an imperfection in his plan because of the distance of the subjects or the strength of their wills? Perhaps, but not likely. More probably… no, there was no flaw. The magic had been executed perfectly. He already had one example of its success. It only needed time to work. And time was something he had in abundance. The elves had been driven into their refuges and could pose him no threat. It would be nice to wipe them out, but that could wait. He would either bring them under his control, or they would fade in time. Attacking them now, before his greatest servants were prepared, would merely waste soldiers without any real hope for gain… and while he had no qualms about wasting soldiers when sheer weight of numbers would guarantee victory, he was practical enough to know when he needed more than numbers. He could bring numbers to bear against men. He had miscalculated eleven years ago, when he failed to anticipate the intervention of Numenor. But Numenor had no serious permanent military presence in Middle-earth.

            And all the other men were dealt with. What kingdoms he had not claimed with his rings, he claimed with other gifts, including, upon occasion, the gift of rising to see another dawn. The rings had gone to kings of men, to win lands and hordes of soldiers for future campaigns. The kings themselves were exemplary specimens of their kind, physically if not mentally; otherwise they would not have risen among states where only strength stood between the individual and chaotic anarchy. His kind of people. They would make good servants. To a man, they had great ambitions, and in furthering his goals they would fulfill their own thirst for power, drinking deeply of the will with which he would direct and control them. But there was one who was different…

            The original plan had been to give a ring to an orc- one of his orcs, whose loyalty would be complete and unquestioning. He had already settled on Grishdek, a ranking lieutenant tasked to leading patrols along the fluid border between liberated Eriador and wasted Enedwaith. In addition to the loyalty advantage, Grishdek had shown himself a strong and capable military leader, which would make him more than fit to serve as one of, perhaps leader of, the nine.

            But on the very day that he crossed the Anduin to take a ring west, he saw Grishdek die, struck down while chopping firewood, of all things. Why he had been unable to locate the responsible elves so Grishdek's fellows could punish them, he could not figure out, but in all likelihood it was merely distraction caused by the foiling of his plans. So he had turned his eyes to closer places, not expecting to see anything more than the odd nomadic tribe of humans and the odd camp of orcs, but he had seen power in Calenardhon. Individuals with power they should not have, and power, and the potential for more power, in the land itself. 

            So he determined to bring all that power under his control. He had no permanent influence in Calenardhon, which was little more to him than the fast and easy way to send troops across the Misty Mountains. But he had ways of extending his power. Give a ring to a chieftain, the one in the best position to extend a wide influence over the plains. Bring the powers of Calenardhon under the influence of the ring. And fulfill his original intention of having one of the nine come from a completely different background from the others.

            Choosing the target had been easy, since there was only the one permanent settlement outside of the mountains. From there, it was easy to investigate the leader and send him a dream of Annatar's coming. He had underestimated Aroch's stubbornness, and thus missed his intended time of arrival, but that was of no consequence. The people were simple, easily overawed and impressed by his regal appearance. But neither they nor their leader had ever known slavery, or torment, or tyranny, or oppression. Their self-styled king was strong, but his people followed him out of respect, and not fear. So their leader came from a different world from the others, giving him one servant with at least some first-hand knowledge of the western part of Middle-earth.

            Planting the ring had been too easy, and the only other thing to do in Calenardhon was to ride into the mountains south and slightly west of the settlement and adopt the trappings of power to overawe an older tribe and lay some contingency plans. He hadn't entirely expected the orc attack to succeed in this case, but neither had he expected it to fail as decisively as it did. The leader of the local orcs had learned the nature of the mission from Ugvin and then quietly killed him, asserting overall command himself. Worse than the challenge to the authority of his chosen leader, however, was the presence of some will opposing him, which had interfered with his observation of the battle. This was what bothered him, that he now had to trust the magic of the ring without his direct supervision. He had his contingency plan in the mountains, which he could directly interfere with, and he could always send more orcs, but he had miscalculated. They must have used Aroch to breed cavalry; letting his anger at that regal horse part him with it was a miscalculation, but it wouldn't matter in the end. When he finally called his servant to him, it would be easy to have him bring horses.

            Meanwhile, he would work to erode the respect people had for their leader at home, trying to create a situation in which the ring could assert its intent. There were many traps laid for this man of the plains, and he would fall into darkness eventually. That was inescapable. And when that happened, whatever powers resided in Calenardhon would either yield to his will or be destroyed by it. Particularly that Numenorean. He had not seen it while he was there, but the Numenorean must have been one of the sources of power he had seen. If he had noticed it then, he could have taken steps to harness that power to his will. The boy was curious and discerning, overawed by neither the ring nor its giver. The boy was good, a threat to him, and most likely the will set in opposition to his own, whether or not he was aware of doing so. He should have seen the threat earlier, but it did not matter. In the end, none of it would matter. Nothing could threaten his dominion, or keep him from ruling it forever. Nothing this boy could do would change that inevitability. Nothing… nothing is what that boy, and all others who opposed his will, would be left with.

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            Caldrion awoke in the middle of the night. He had experienced many visions during the night, but none had any clarity. He remembered fleeting images of attractive unclad females, lots of blood, and a nagging whisper going through his brain that he could neither comprehend nor stop. Being neither rested nor inclined to immediately return to sleep, he got up and slipped out. By the light of the dying embers, he spied a figure slowly pacing back and forth. Sirgo.

            Caldrion sought to stay in the shadows and avoid being noticed, but no sooner had he seen the old man than he came deliberately striding over. "I wondered if I would be sharing this restless night with another," he spoke in a voice barely audible over the chirping of the insects. "Have you felt it too, the hate pervading this night? So much anger… a great and terrible power dreams this night. Snatches of this evil haunt my sleep, the blood of countless souls trickling before my closed eyes."

            "Mine also," Caldrion said, with more sympathy for Sirgo than he had ever felt before. "And that infernal whisper… but I cannot make sense of it!" he added with frustration.

            "If you can listen closely enough, you will hear it. 'You will be left with nothing,' it says occasionally, but mostly it just repeats 'I will sweep you from the pages of time,' and I fear, for I have never heard such words spoken with such authority."

            "A sense of impending doom has hovered over me since we left Aratur. Not all is right in these summer nights on the plains, the divine silence of the stars. And now this, tonight. The doom is speaking in my head, and I cannot even understand it. I wish I were safely back in Aratur, where I don't have to listen to this dread whisper."

            "I doubt any place is safe from the demons of power, but we will begin the road home on the morrow. This bank is clear, and other tasks await us in Aratur. In the meantime, listen to what the power of your heart tells you. You will understand in time."

I will sweep you from the pages of time. I will sweep you from the pages of time. Caldrion's night would remain sleepless. He could not still his thoughts, his desires, his fears. They merely swirled round and round through his confused brain. And though he tried, he could not understand the words. I will sweep you from the pages of time. I will sweep you from the pages of time. A cold voice, penetrating and without warmth, but somehow vaguely familiar. I will sweep you from the pages of time. I will sweep you from the pages of time. And in the darkness the echo answers, "I will sweep you from the pages of time!"


	6. Where There's a Will

(A/N: For disclaimers, the Valar and the setting belong to Tolkien, the several original characters are mine. This is the last chapter in what I'm calling Part I- which translates to 'there will be a noteworthy time lapse between this chapter and the next.' I've already started work on it and have a pretty solid outline of the next three or four chapters, but I hope not to spend too much time on those until I've tackled another plot bunny that's scratching me and given Halls a much-needed update. All of which is a long way of saying it may be a bit before I post another update. Though if I pick up a lot of reviews, I may be inclined to change my focus…)

Review Responses:

**TreeHugger**: Yes, I do know what you mean about the embellishment of Graldor's activities, though I must admit I did laugh at you when I read that comment. Caldrion was speaking for me in that scene, expressing both my personal views now (which may partially explain my inability to attract a girlfriend in this sexually-charged age) and my opinion about Middle-earth (that it was not the free love paradise some people would make it). Of course, Caldrion's resistance may make things more difficult for him later… You've touched on one of the more difficult parts of this story: insinuating things for plot purposes that I can't state explicitly because they would badly violate canon. I just hope I can get you to where I'm taking you with this in a timely fashion :-)

**Dragon-of-the-north**: Interesting that you interpreted Graldor's lusts as the work of the ring- I had been thinking that he had a weakness for women long before he met Annatar, but I could be wrong :-) I find it funny that both you and Tree really liked Caldrion's choice- this being a 'downer' story, he's going to have to fall eventually. Thank you for the compliment about my prose- from someone whose style is as excellent as yours, that's high praise indeed. Hope this chapter lives up to your expectations.

**Greetings from Mordor**: Only a little blood in this one, I'm afraid, but I'm already plotting out a chapter length battle for Chapter VIII, so just wait a bit. Your compliments keep giving me goosebumps. The Sauron POV was a lot of fun to write, because it's so much easier to wrap your mind around an 'apprentice villain' (he'll kill me for saying that) who's making things up as he strikes out on his own than a big eye that would be omnipotent if it recovered a piece of jewelry that it couldn't even wear. Caldrion's education will take an interesting turn shortly… And as for talent (stealing words from Edison), in fanfic it's largely a matter of getting a good shot of inspiration and then perspiring while the story falls into place (at least for me).

Wings of the Storm, Chapter VI- Where There's a Will…

            When morning came, the freedman Ratley found Caldrion curled up next to the fire, shivering despite the warmth of the summer dawn. He must have fallen asleep at some point, but he did not remember anything from the night except his seemingly impossible fight with the accursed voice in his head. Now, with the return of the sun, the voice was gone, but it was replaced by a dull pounding. Caldrion couldn't remember that many details of the one time Graldor had gotten him good and drunk, but he had a feeling that the morning after that compared favorably to this one. They would go the first stage of the way home today, and he could already tell that it would not be fun.

            His mood was not helped by the attitude of the other soldiers. Many had seen the events of the previous evening, and the rest had heard about it. As they scrambled about, making ready to leave this last former orc settlement, they made no attempt to disguise their looks of contempt. Just as Graldor was revered for his midnight skills, so now would Caldrion be reviled for his lack of willingness to use those same skills. He saw a few glances that might have been sympathetic, but none were willing to risk the ire of their fellows by approaching him. Whatever respect Caldrion had gained among the men for his military exploits during this campaign had evaporated, and there would not be another opportunity to regain it this summer. Not that the men really mattered… or so he told himself. It was the leaders who mattered. He and Sirgo now had some kind of understanding, though Caldrion still wasn't entirely sure about the strange nomad. He knew Neblis would be pleased with his respect for women, and Frealine seemed to have a similar 'hands off' philosophy with regard to the female ex-captives. And Graldor would forget about this soon enough.

            But there was still that nagging hope in his mind. Farvas was unquestionably attractive to him, and he still thought that, if he could talk to her, he could make her understand his vision of love and perhaps, given time, they could share that vision together. So it was that, as she and Halin walked past him, he opened his mouth, not sure what he was going to say but only hoping to make her understand. He had not gotten past "um…" when she opened her mouth and spat at him, catching him full in the cheek. As he recoiled, he saw Halin look at him with something akin to pity, before Farvas grabbed his arm and led him away. "That did not work so well," thought Caldrion, wiping the spit off his face. "This may not be a winning strategy. This certainly does not seem to be the way into that girl's heart."

            Caldrion's lingering headache seemed to have significantly lowered his pain threshold. By midafternoon he needed all his strength and focus just to stay on the horse, and his pain was not improved by the cloud cover that had gathered shortly after their departure and was now drenching them with a soaking rain. When they finally stopped for the night, Caldrion fell asleep before anyone else had started eating. The next morning wrought only a slight improvement in his aching muscles, though at least the rain had stopped. 

            By noon, the sun had finally emerged from behind the clouds, which lightened his mood considerably. Shortly thereafter, Sirgo pulled up his mount next to Caldrion's. "I want to apologize to you. Until the other night, I had not realized what we had in common. There is something special about you, something unusual, allowing you to perceive more than a normal man can. I do not know for certain, because I cannot see what it is that is now happening in this world, but I do see that you are an important part of these happenings, as is Graldor, as is all of Aratur."

            Caldrion stared at him. "Who are you?"

            "I am Sirgo, prophet of the nomads and servant of Graldor, King of Aratur."

            "No, I mean, what are you?"

            "At this juncture, even I cannot answer that. I do know this, though, that I am not here without purpose, and neither are you, and neither is Graldor. Though few care to remember, the Valar and, indeed, the One, still live and, though it might not seem so, they are still active in this world."

            "How? I see no purpose, only existence: birth, life, death."

            "It is that very existence through which we have purpose. The Valar work their will through you, through me, through Graldor, through Neblis. And there are forces that oppose the Valar, and those forces, whatever they are, are coming after Graldor. He is a threat to the dark powers; how, I cannot say, but they are after him. And now their wrath is turned against you and me. But they must not get us. They must not get Graldor. He has a purpose to fulfill, and we are to help and protect him."

            "He is already fulfilling it. He will become the 'Mightiest man of the eastern world' in truth. He will conquer and civilize these plains."

            "To what end?"

            "The Valar know."

            "Aye. That they do, lad. That they do."

            That evening, Caldrion settled in for the night feeling more content than he had in a long time. Even if he couldn't quite call Sirgo a friend, he now understood what the old man thought a lot better. Their conversation from that afternoon had been deeply reassuring and had reminded him of the faith that went along with the morals he had professed in the face of temptation a couple days ago. Though the thought that Graldor was nothing more than a pawn in the grander clash between the wills of good and evil disturbed him, the idea that he was on the same side as the Valar comforted him. And, of course, there was the fact that they would arrive home tomorrow afternoon.

            As if to complete Caldrion's happiness, Graldor came over before Caldrion had retired. The two had not spoken since that incident two nights before. "I want to apologize for ignoring you. I've thought about it, and I really don't care. Sometimes I even wish I had your force of will, to resist the temptations of women. Sometimes, of course, I don't want act like you," he said with a grin.

            "Thank you," Caldrion grinned in response, and they embraced as brothers. Even though he had known Graldor would forget about it eventually, that did not temper his relief and gratitude that Graldor once again accepted him.

            "I'm worried about the ring, Caldrion. When I wear it I feel powerful, invincible, and you've seen what I can do to orcs." Caldrion did not need reminding of how far the heads of decapitated orcs flew after invisible Graldor had cut them. He remembered one in particular that had sailed all the way across the field of battle and struck the cavalryman Lenniol with such force that he fell off his horse. "When it's on, though, I feel like I'm being watched, and once or twice I've even felt like the eye of the watcher was trying to direct my actions."

            "Then don't wear it. The fighting for this year is over, and we have a good army. We can win battles without the ring. I don't know if it actually does you harm or if these are merely sensations induced by your invisibility, but I see no reason to find out if we can accomplish what we need without it."

            "I had hoped you might say that. Saves me from having to make that decision on my own. I can now rest peacefully with one less worry on my mind. I will not let the ring determine my course of action."

            The night and last leg of the journey were uneventful until they arrived at the gate of Aratur that afternoon. There Dalran of the watch informed them that Deol had claimed Kingship of Aratur and was holding the city against them. Apparently, he had reminded them of Graldor's ability to become invisible (which the majority of people had not seen demonstrated since the night he had received the ring) and accused him of being a 'witch king' who sought to corrupt and mislead his people on this 'damnfool quest to conquer the world.' 

            Graldor, infuriated beyond reason, would have commenced an attack on the city immediately, but Sirgo restrained him by pointing out that if the attacked Aratur, they would no longer have homes. Graldor then challenged Deol to single combat, but Dalran answered that the King was holding court at the moment and could not be distracted from that task. However, Elthor was here to negotiate a peaceful settlement with Graldor and his army. Sirgo, to no one's surprise, took charge of the negotiations, which was probably just as well considering that Graldor's first inclination was to take off Elthor's head and his second was to storm off in the opposite direction. Caldrion followed at a safe distance as Sirgo and Elthor began to talk. Graldor was raging as Caldrion approached.

            "Damn that bastard. I'll kill him. He won't get away with this usurpation; I won't let him. I'll put on the ring and place his head on the wall."

            "Don't. All you would do is prove to the people that Deol was right. If you use the ring again, they will be sure you are an evil witch king. They will hate you."

            "Let them hate, so long as they fear. The army knows and trusts me. They know that the ring is an aid in combat, a great ally of our army. I will use it to destroy my enemy."

            "No. Don't you remember what you told me last night? You cannot use the ring."

            "There is no other way. I must do it. I _will_ do it. I won't have that bastard sitting on MY throne." He slipped on the ring and Caldrion watched his shadowy form slink over to the gate and slip through the slim opening from whence Elthor had come out, wondering how worried he ought to be.

            Shortly thereafter, Sirgo came to where Caldrion was an inquired about Graldor's whereabouts. "He's… um… indisposed at the moment." Caldrion could not say what instinct told him not to tell Sirgo the truth, especially in light of their recent conversations.

            "I hope he's done soon. Elthor says that Deol will let us back into the city if he surrenders the ring to Deol and he and the army swear fealty to Deol. He will not allow any who were not part of Graldor's original band to enter the town and he intends to expel my people who remained behind as well. He says all these foreigners are here only to help subject the first settlers of Aratur to Graldor's evil will."

            "Damn. What is our plan then?"

            "I have to get Graldor's permission for this, but I know a way, old magic that might be called the work of a witch, to remove Deol from the throne without harming anyone else. I would be unable to stay in Aratur if I did it, since no one would trust me anymore, but it would restore Graldor to his home, which is critical if he is to fulfill his purpose. If Aratur falls outside his control, Graldor will never be able to rule the plains. Under no circumstances can he use the ring in public again- not today, not ever. If he does not use it to regain his throne, he may be able to regain people's trust once Deol is dead, but if he uses it today he will never be loved again."

            Caldrion was both angry and frightened by Sirgo's words regarding Graldor and the ring, but there was little either of them could do to stop Graldor at this point, and he decided it would be better if Sirgo did not find out what Graldor had done until the deed was accomplished. So he changed the subject slightly. "You really think Deol is the source of these lies? Ambitious the lord of the watch may be, but I have never thought of him as clever enough to think up this idea of an evil conspiracy. And come to that, how did he convince everyone of this silly idea? Graldor picked him as regent because he had neither the imagination nor the charisma to usurp the throne. Yet here he is, a very successful usurper. How?"

            Before Sirgo could attempt to answer, there was a loud commotion and the gates swung wide open. Melgras, with a few others standing beside him, proclaimed "The Lord Graldor, King of Aratur, bids his faithful soldiers enter the capital of his realm and proceed to the King's Hall." As the first soldiers crossed the threshold, Melgras said something to them in a lower voice and they seized Elthor and Dalran.

            Caldrion and Sirgo hurried to the gate, where they were joined by Neblis and Frealine. Sirgo quickly found the boy Betlin, who had been standing with Melgras, and asked him what had transpired.

            "Deol was holding a court, trials for those few of us left who had managed to resist his stupid lies, remained loyal to Graldor, and refused to swear loyalty to Deol. Deol was sitting on the throne, Yethas standing by his side. He had already overseen the executions of Mardec the soldier and Brinder the farmer and was sentencing Orthior when, without warning, Deol himself was decapitated and a voice from behind the throne rang out: 'O you of little faith! Whom do you serve, the rightful king or the usurper and his lies?' And then this sunbeam came through the window and settled across the throne, and the light suddenly seemed to have substance and weight. And out of the light stepped Graldor, the true King of Aratur, displayed as such before those who had so recently turned from him. And the whole hall fell on its knees. He ordered Yethas, Elthor, and Dalran seized, and commanded Melgras, Tatalis, Fremus, and the remainder of those who had stayed loyal to go and open the gates."

            Betlin turned to lead the officers on with the rest of the troops. Sirgo hesitated and turned to Caldrion. "You should not have withheld the truth from me, but it matters not, because I was wrong. He used the ring and regained their love. He is fulfilling the will of the Valar. There is no other explanation."

            The scene in the hall was grisly, even for Caldrion, who had seen countless orcs slain this way. Deol's body had been laid prostrate before the throne. In the middle of the open space sat his head, its eyes staring out accusingly at the assembled multitude. Against the wall behind the throne, Yethas, Elthor, and Dalran stood half-naked, bruised and bloody from the beating Graldor had commanded the soldiers administer. And on the throne itself sat Graldor, cloaked in awesome and terrible majesty, looking merciless and inaccessible.

            That afternoon, Graldor proclaimed a general amnesty to the civilians of Aratur and accepted their collective oath. Over the next three days he tried Smosur, Egien, Thalond, Wyslun, and all the other traitorous soldiers individually. Each was acquitted and readmitted into the Grand Army of Aratur, but only after being publicly humiliated. Each day culminated with an execution, as the heads of Dalran, Yethas, and Elthor joined that of Deol as decoration impaled on the top of the wall.

            Finally, on the fifth night after their return, the celebratory banquet was held. Graldor had not yet emerged from his inaccessible isolation and, much to Caldrion's chagrin, he insisted that Fremus read the full list of titles. Caldrion was keeping himself from dozing in his seat by trying to decide which of the titles were actually plausible and which remained complete fantasies when he noticed that Fremus had inserted a new title: "A King head and shoulders above all others."


	7. Awakenings

(A/N: Many thanks to Dragon-of-the-north for helping me iron out one of the plot points in this chapter. This is a transitional chapter for which I apologize, as it is not quite up to my usual standards. As usual, elves and the general world belong to Tolkien but the original characters and locations are mine.)

Responses to Reviewers:

**TreeHugger**- Well, Farvas' true colors come out below. She definitely has issues with how she perceives herself. Outside of the story, I can't say anything more about Sirgo. Draw your own conclusions. Glad you liked my religious statement; I really think that the way various canon characters were in the right place at the right time bears out the truth of this. Deol and Graldor's sunbeam- makes you wonder how many different powers are at work here, and why.

**Dragon-of-the-north**- First I just want to express my amusement that you and Tree mostly commented on the same elements; it becomes obvious that part of why SPSC is so good is because you two think alike. If you didn't respect Farvas before, you certainly won't now. Whether or not Caldrion's weakness will be part of his fall remains to be seen… A theme that I didn't originally intend to address but wound up asserting its presence anyway is the discrepancy between intention and interpretation among demonstrations of power. And, after showing that Graldor's political philosophy influenced the Romans and Machiavelli, this chapter proves that Robert Browning stole much of one of his poems from Caldrion :-)

**Greetings from Mordor**- One more chapter to go to the battle, but at least I included an execution in this chapter just for you. Thank you again for the compliments.

Wings of the Storm, Chapter VII- Awakenings

[Perhaps the most significant flaw with this tale is the timeline. Some maintain that an event such as that depicted in this story would have taken hundreds of years, while others think it might span only a few decades. My father's telling of the tale is closer to the latter, and, though I suspect the former is probably correct, I have kept the more time-compressed version of the tale to preserve the dramatic qualities.]

            It had been more than a few years since Caldrion had seen a summer day this pretty… and not just because of the weather. Though they had been married many years, something about the way the wind teased her red hair and the way the sun lit up her face, the smoothness of her cheek and the playful blue of her eyes, made her look more beautiful than the day he first met her. The children were there too, practicing their swordsmanship and riding skills. They were better than he had been at their ages, and he would not object to having them fight beside him, even the girls. They were his treasures, and he and Graldor, who was like a second father to them, had taught them well.

            But it was a different sort of treasure Caldrion sought this day. Betlin had seen something glittering in the stream, gold born out of the mountains by the snow. Aratur was already queen of the plains, and now she would have a crown. What he was finding, though, was not gold, but something else shimmering in the water. He shook his head. This was fool's gold, a fool's errand, a fool's life.

            A fish flashed in the clear, cold water. Something made him tense. He looked up. There was a storm blowing in from the east, and somehow it was so terrifying that it petrified him. There was a whirlwind beneath, looking vaguely familiar, like something from a life long forgotten. He squinted, vainly trying to see the rider, but all he perceived was a voice, echoing faintly in the distance as though it were not meant for him. "I have come to carry you home. I have

            "Brought water, my lord."

            Caldrion, shaking off the last of what had become, at least in part, a familiar dream, nodded to Dunev. Caldrion's transition from squire to trusted advisor had been completed shortly after the campaign had ended, when Graldor had given him the boy Dunev as servant and squire. Two harvests had passed since then, and much had changed, but one thing had not: Graldor remained aloof. In addition to his detachment, he was also absent at odd times, which Caldrion strongly suspected was due to the influence of the ring. Though he saw the man he had once thought of as an older brother on a daily basis, he led a separate existence from Graldor.

            And it might have been more separate, if Caldrion had allowed it. Upon returning from the campaign, Graldor had concluded that the best way to provide shelter for the new citizens of the town was to build a new settlement, since they would have had to expand the wall in order to build enough new houses in Aratur. The site chosen was less than an hour's ride on horse west of Aratur, on a small knoll just north of the stream. As the construction of Hillguard (so named because it would be easier to defend than Aratur) neared completion that autumn, Graldor had offered Caldrion command of the settlement. Caldrion had declined, protesting that he was too young and too inexperienced for such a position of authority. Graldor had shown little emotion at his refusal, but Caldrion could sense the disappointment simmering beneath the surface.

            Hillguard was thus led by Sirgo, with Frealine commanding the military presence in the town. Orthior was originally slated for the former post, but Graldor had unexpectedly changed his mind, which Caldrion suspected was on account of the fact that, while Sirgo had a habit of questioning the King's decisions, Orthior concurred with pretty much everything Graldor decided in court. A year and a half later, both towns were thriving, and the increase in population had led to a substantial increase in the number of babies, which raised the spirits of everyone, possibly excepting Graldor and the mothers of said babies, at least in the middle of the night.

            Despite his demeanor, though, the people had found a new reverence for Graldor. Though most preferred to forget the accompanying bloodbath, none who had been present forgot how he had materialized in the sunbeam, clearly demonstrating that he was not a 'witch king' but rather a man favored by powers above himself. He was less of a human, rarely socializing with people like he used to, but much more of a leader.

            Caldrion got out of bed. He would get another firsthand look at that leadership today; it was court day again, much to his chagrin. Before the campaign, court days were fairly informal and occurred only occasionally, which translated as 'whenever Graldor felt like it.' Now they were a regular and far more frequent happening.

            As Caldrion slipped into his space in the hall, the foremost reason he hated court had just begun. Fremus had just proclaimed Graldor the "Ruler of all he surveys." Caldrion thought back, trying to remember a truly pleasant court. Since the campaign had ended, they had consisted of Fremus reading the full list of Graldor's titles, Melgras, in far more words than necessary, proclaiming the Court of the King open for matters to be brought for his consideration, and zero to three people coming forward with petty complaints against their neighbors. The most interesting were when Sirgo or Frealine had some decision they were saving for Graldor, who was still their nominal superior, but that did not happen very often.

            No, the court Caldrion remembered most distinctly was the first or second after the celebratory feast at the end of the campaign. The two elves who had been rescued at Rivertown had come forward requesting horses so they could return to their kin. Caldrion had never actually gotten a good look at them, but they were not like the elves he remembered seeing in his childhood; the time among the orcs had taken a heavy toll, and they had wounds that would never heal. The foot of one was no longer recognizable as such, forcing the elf to hobble along with a crutch, and the other had lost most of his nose, a disfigurement at odds with his otherwise handsome face. Caldrion pitied them greatly and assumed that the King would willingly assent to their request. But the King was not the same man he once was. Graldor had hotly denied them and launched into an angry tirade about their refusal to interbreed with the humans of Aratur and improve his kingdom's bloodlines. Which made no sense at all to Caldrion. In addition to the multiple logical fallacies involved in such a plan, Caldrion had never even heard of this. Based on their expressions of puzzlement, disgust, and fear, this was the first the elves had heard of it as well.

            He had tried to talk with Graldor afterward, but the King had remained stony and obstinate. "If they want my excellent horses to take home and mate with their own, that's fine, but they can't do such a thing without payment. I want elven blood in Aratur."

            "Why should you want elven blood in Aratur? I know both of them have long hair, but I am fairly certain that they are both male, in which case all they could do is father children of no relation to you." 

            Graldor looked skeptical. "Meaning?"

            Caldrion's temper spilled over a bit. "Do I have to spell it out for you? Meaning there will be half-elven children in Aratur. Who would be a threat to your throne should a usurper decide to use them as such. Or rivals to your children, should you ever decide to father some of unquestionable paternity."

            Graldor seemed puzzled, as though he had never considered that possibility, but, as his hand shifted in his pocket, he provided an answer nevertheless. "I want men of elven lineage in Aratur to provide me with excellent warriors who have long-life spans and can aid my army with magic. These will be no usurpers. I will raise them to be especially loyal to me."

            "But you already have men like that. Halin, Frealine, Yilisond, Neblis, and many others are excellent soldiers and loyal. I have, for better or worse, a long-life span, assuming it isn't interrupted in battle. And I don't know what this magic you speak of is, but I would say Sirgo is as close a magician as Aratur will ever see. Why should you feel the need to supplant such men? And besides, human beings, or elf beings in this case, are not like horses, to be mated to serve the purposes of their owners. There is a certain dignity among the civilized folk of the world that you would be needlessly violating if you compelled them to do this. And elves with humans? Even in the legends, elves have only twice mated with men. It's unheard of to have such crossbreeding in this day and age, especially of the casual, loveless nature you propose."

            "What is your obsession with love? Even if such an emotion exists, there is no good reason that practical considerations should be subjected to it. I will not yet force them to do anything yet, but those elves must know that they will not have horses until they do what is required."

            That night, Caldrion had gone to one of the stables, found two older stallions, and led them to the hut where the elves were staying. The elves looked surprised and furtive, leading Caldrion to suspect that they might be planning an escape. He told them to gather their possessions, which were few enough, and follow him. He took them to the gate and conversed with the sentry while they rode out. The man did not see their faces, and when he asked who they were, Caldrion just said "King's business." It was only after they were gone that Caldrion realized he had never really spoken with them and did not know their names.

Despite Caldrion's fears, if anyone, including Graldor, noticed his role in the absence of the elves and the stallions, they made no mention of it. Betlin even told Caldrion privately that he had heard Graldor muse that elves must have escaped by using "damned elvish magic."

            The sound of laughter recalled Caldrion from his reverie. Fremus and Melgras were both done. It looked like Graldor had been speaking but Egien had started laughing at something he said. What that was, Caldrion would never find out, because Graldor stormed out of the hall and the people, now that their King had left, wandered back to their normal lives. Caldrion did likewise, glad that he now had most of the day still ahead of him: plenty of time to practice.

            Caldrion already ranked among the best swordsmen in the Grand Army of Aratur, and since the last campaign he had improved his riding skills tremendously. Now Neblis was teaching him the art of fighting from horseback, which he found far more difficult than doing either individually. Graldor's hope was that, given several more years, there would be enough horses for every man in the army to be mounted and, if Caldrion was to keep his high standing in the army, he would have to be more skilled fighting on horseback than other potential leaders. Neblis was very helpful and had given him many tips on improving his technique, but his problem ultimately came down to his inability to think about steering the horse and swinging the sword at the same time. The day before, Neblis had encouraged Caldrion to try to think like the horse by steering with his knees instead of the reins, and he was sure this would be the way he overcame this difficulty.

            That evening, Caldrion, feeling extremely sore and slightly discouraged, needed no prompting to slip off into a dreamless sleep. 

            Caldrion's gentle return to consciousness was accelerated by barely muffled screams from the hallway without. "What now?" he wondered. A couple minutes later, as he emerged from his room, he saw the source of the disturbance: the night sentry for this passage was still at his watch, but his head was not. Caldrion's first reaction was probably similar to that of the others. Graldor had started posting sentries within the palace since his return from campaigning, for fear that someone might still be clinging to the lies of Deol and would try to kill the King and take his ring. If one of the sentries was dead, such a thing might have happened overnight.

            But before Caldrion ran off to check, he heard one of the others speak a name, which told him who had killed the man and where his head was. The dead sentry was Egien.

            And, as expected, his head sat on a stake above the gate. Caldrion's anger at seeing a man killed for laughing made him bold. As he barged into the King's bedchamber a couple minutes later, he roared "Graldor, this has got to stop!" Before he could continue, though, he had to take in the strange sight. Graldor had not been a neat person, nor had he ever wanted Caldrion to try to keep his chamber neat, but now the bedroom was immaculate. No clothes were littering the floor, and the bed was made up so perfectly it might not have been slept in… and in fact, it could not have been, as a surprisingly thick layer of dust covered the blanket and pillows.

            There was a slight movement in the corner as Graldor looked up. He was huddled on the chair, holding the ring before his face between two thumbs and two fingers. Caldrion strode across the room and swatted it out of Graldor's hands, sending it clattering across the room. Graldor stood suddenly, his eyes and hands focused only on the ring, but Caldrion pushed him back into the chair and slapped him hard in the face.

            "Why, my lord? Why do you do this to yourself? Look at me, damn it!"

            Graldor finally turned his gaze away from the ring, but as he looked at Caldrion, there was no sign of life in his eyes. "What are you doing to yourself? Why aren't you sleeping? Have you forgotten who you are? Have Deol's lies made you so accustomed to being feared that you have forgotten how to be loved? Do you not remember how to love? To laugh?" Graldor's eyes flashed at that, and he started to look down, not toward the ring but toward his feet. Caldrion grabbed him by the chin and forced his gaze back up.

            "Damn it, Graldor! You are a man, a King, not some mouthpiece for a ring. The ring is in your possession, not the other way round. Break out of your isolation! Become the King you once were, not the hollow shell you have become."

            "Oh, Caldrion, I'm so sorry," the King said, and he began to sob quietly in his hands. "What have I done?"

            Caldrion knelt before him. "Think not on it, Graldor. And think not on the ring. The shadow is past; keep it in your pocket and off your finger. Get some sleep now. You have been without sleep for too long."

            As Caldrion walked toward the doorway, he thought of something else he could do for Graldor. He called Dunev and commanded him to "Find an attractive young woman willing to serve the King. Quickly now." He then went back in to help Graldor dust off the bed.

            Dunev came back a few minutes later leading, of all people, Farvas. She looked as beautiful as ever, but there was fear in her eyes. Caldrion laughed. He had stopped thinking about her when he realized that she was not the red-haired woman in his dreams.

            By contrast, Graldor's eyes lit up when he saw a woman entering his bedchamber. "Serve him well, my dear," Caldrion told her. "He has done without for long enough."

            As he and Dunev closed the door behind them, Caldrion instructed the sentry to let none disturb the King and to come to him if something important came up.

            Something important did come up that evening, and the sentry interrupted Caldrion's practice with Neblis. When Caldrion saw Sirgo, he regretted giving that command, because anything the old man thought important enough to come to Aratur at this hour was worth interrupting Graldor's rest.

            Luckily for all involved, when Caldrion, Sirgo, and the sentry came to Graldor's room, he was standing in the doorway, dismissing Farvas with one last pat on the bum. She was smiling, and he looked happy, rested, and refreshed. "I am glad you are back among the living, my lord," Sirgo said with an unusually wide grin. "It is time."

            "Time for what?" Caldrion asked.

            "Close the door and I'll tell you." Caldrion complied, and Sirgo continued. "The time is now right for us to cross the Onodlo and commence our second offensive against the orc settlements. The cool weather has held off the spring thaw, so crossing the river, at least on the way out, will not be difficult. Moreover, these orcs have at least a rudimentary hierarchy and are beginning to gather to cross the river themselves, hoping to bring the west bank under their authority as well. Unlike the multiple battles that we had to fight before, here we can fight one battle and then break up to take care of the miniscule garrisons left behind at their other towns."

            "How do you know all this?" inquired Graldor.

            "I saw it in a dream, similar to the daydream in which I saw the situation in Rivertown."

            "Sounds good. Can we have tomorrow to get ready and then leave the morning after, or must it be tomorrow?"

            "The day after would be best, as that will give Frealine time to bring most of the men from Hillguard."

            "And can I trust Orthior and Melgras to hold the towns, or should I leave Frealine or Neblis?"

            "Orthior and Melgras shall be fine. They were loyal to you before, and the people will not suffer a usurper now as they did then."

            Thus it was that, two mornings later, the Grand Army of Aratur left on its second campaign. Caldrion could not remember ever feeling so happy and free. Graldor's mood was broken, and he was among the troops, chatting amiably and making ribald jokes. This was where the King belonged: not on the throne, brooding over a ring, but in the field, with the army at his back and a foe waiting to be conquered.

The sound of Graldor's hearty laughter and the rumble of advancing feet and hooves mixed with more natural sounds: the babbling of the stream, the whispering of the wind. Caldrion looked up, and could not help but smile. The birds were on the wing, the sun was ascending in the heavens, and all was right with the world.


	8. The Jaws of Defeat

(A/N: My apologies for taking so long to get this chapter out. Signing up for sixteen credits was decidedly not the most intelligent thing I've ever done. As promised, this is the battle chapter, though I apologize for its lack of length. The general setting, orcs, and the Enemy are Tolkien's. The original characters are mine.)

Responses to my very patient reviewers:

**Dragon-of-the-north**: If you thought Caldrion was interesting in the last chapter… Yes, my obsessiveness with detail probably stems from my historical background. You are definitely right about only the people's superficial perceptions of Graldor changing. Isn't it ironic that, in combating the one who accused him of being evil, Graldor took upon himself basically the same traits of what he was accused of? Just how many contingency plans does Annatar (or whatever other Powers are manipulating the situation) have?

**Greetings from Mordor**: Behold, the battle (for what it's worth). Glad you liked the ironic phrasing- it's fun to write like that. And I'm glad that I've succeeded in my goal of making the soon-to-be Nazgul an understandable character.

**TreeHugger**: If you liked the dream last chapter, you'll definitely like the free rein you can take with this chapter. LOL at your analysis of Graldor's choice of Sirgo- I was actually thinking the opposite (that Graldor decided to keep the yes-man close by instead of the guy who would question him). Thank you for the compliment. I will return it by noting that your review was wonderfully insightful and just as well written as your tales.

**Daw**** the minstrel**- Thank you for the compliments. I'm glad that I am succeeding in my goals for this story.

**Lady LeBeau**- Thanks for all the reviews. All that foreboding at once is more than most people can take, yet you somehow survived it all :-) Have a junior mint. And whether or not the dream is a prophecy is up to your imagination…

Wings of the Storm, Chapter VIII- The Jaws of Defeat

            Caldrion had not seen this many orcs in one place since the great invasion, now fifteen years past. This group could not rival that one, but it easily had more than the two hundred that marched or rode with Graldor (by how much, Caldrion could not be sure. He was a man of many talents, but estimating crowds was not one of them). The good news, at least, was that they seemed utterly lacking in organization and discipline, though some of that might be the result of having no torches in the pre-dawn dark.

            As Sirgo had predicted, the orcs, responding to the presence of the invaders, had left the settlement where they had congregated during the night and assembled for battle on the plain, between the town and the humans. Sirgo recommended basically the same ruse they had used at Rivertown. The infantry would set up camp across from the ridge on which the settlement sat, with the cavalry waiting further back. During the night, the infantry would shift to the left, to outflank the attacking foe. Graldor and Caldrion were in command of the left; the former was carrying his ring but, at a suggestion from Caldrion that would have been a command had he the authority to enforce it, would only put it on if they were completely defeated and he could use it to escape back to Aratur. Frealine led what was now the center, which would bear the brunt of the initial charge. Sirgo and a few chosen others remained in what had once been Frealine's camp, so the orc left could not outflank Frealine before Neblis rode up with the cavalry.

            For all their apparent disorganization, there was no loud command that told the orcs to advance. Despite his confidence in Sirgo's vision, Caldrion was still exceedingly nervous. He and Graldor were not to attack until the orcs were engaged with Frealine's men. Neblis, in turn, was waiting until he saw the first pale rays of morning to begin his charge. Caldrion's sword was at the ready as he watched the orcs march through the gloom. When they heard the first clashing of swords below, Graldor, Caldrion, and the men behind them ran forward in silence.

            As was always the case in surprise attacks, the first kills were the easiest. Graldor had gone directly into the orc ranks, while Caldrion was moving behind them, thrusting his sword in their backs. It did not take long, though, before they began turning to face the threat behind them. Caldrion dodged the sword of the first one and put his own weapon through the orc's belly, but for the next he needed to block with his shield before that orc too fell to his sword. Two tried to fight him at once, but he skewered one and took the other under the chin with his shield. The next was extremely strong and might have taken his arm off had Halin not intervened. And so on and so on, Caldrion fought, unaware that he was outpacing the rest of the attackers and moving further and further away from Frealine's men.

            What had been a fairly quiet battlefield but for the clanging of weapons and shields was now filled with the yells of men, the deeper roars of orcs, the screams of the wounded, and the moans of the dying. Was Neblis coming? Caldrion was not sure he could precisely identify the 'first pale rays of morning,' but he thought that might be them in the east.

            A huge orc interrupted Caldrion's view of the horizon. He moved his sword to meet the orc's thrust, but it was so powerful that it drove his own sword to the ground. Before he could bring his sword back up, the orc was slashing down toward his head. His shield went up to block. It groaned under the impact. The orc tried again. The wood cracked. The orc's third blow splintered the shield into worthless kindling. 

At that moment, Caldrion heard the distant thunder of hooves, but it was the orcs, not the men, whose yells sounded triumphant. Caldrion looked to his left and saw a second line of orcs moving over the ridge toward them. Among the new assailants were several- Caldrion's heart fluttered and his mouth formed an expletive- _archers_.

            Out of the corner of his eye, Caldrion saw the orc's sword descending again. He ducked, but not enough to spare himself the blow.

[When telling this tale, my father would pause here, to go get another mug of ale or handful of pipeweed. Once, he even sent us to bed at this point, making us wait until the next day to continue the story. While it is highly tempting to subject those reading this to a similar pause, I will not do so.]

            The orcs swarmed over the field. What few men remained alive were running as fast as their legs would carry them, which, in most cases, was simply not fast enough. The entire formation had broken. The riderless horses were running around, some joining the flight, some continuing the charge of their fallen masters, some just milling around as though awaiting orders. It was one of these, a ruddy brown creature, that suddenly buckled and, driven by a new sense of purpose, began running at top speed away from the orcs. Two of the archers saw it and began firing. The arrows suddenly stopped before they could strike the horse and hung in midair above the saddle as the horse came to a stop. On the wind, a somehow familiar voice expressed its disappointment. "He was weaker than I thought."

            "No!" Caldrion screamed as he sat up. The orc must have moved on, thinking him dead. His sword was still in his hand, but his helm lay where he had fallen. It was cloven in two. In front of him, the cavalry was cutting through the orc left with deadly efficiency. Neblis, at the fore, burst through the orc rear and immediately began gathering speed to charge the slowly advancing second line. Most of the rest of the cavalry followed, but Neblis was well ahead.

            Caldrion was not aware of standing up; indeed he was unaware of anything else going on around him besides the charge of his mentor and friend.

            Caldrion did not see the arrow coming, but he did notice when it protruded from Neblis' throat. Perhaps sensing the departure of its rider's spirit, the horse came to a sudden stop, sending the limp body flying.

            Caldrion's eyes flashed. He saw the sudden shock and horror in Neblis' face as the arrow pierced his windpipe, Sirgo surrounded by four or five orcs, a huge orc striking a man's head. It was his own. Then, in front of him, he saw an ethereal figure, cloaked in shadowy fog as Graldor was when wearing the ring, looking at them through a darkened window. His lips were parted in a half-smile, but he was so relaxed and content that he seemed defenseless. Caldrion could not say how he knew, but he realized that he needed to break the window. He struck out with his fist, and the glass shattered. The face looked surprised but was too late to react. Caldrion again saw the brown horse, its unseen rider pierced with arrows, but it immediately became Neblis' white horse, standing in the middle of the field as though waiting for direction. The orcs were continuing their slow advance, but the cavalry had pulled up short when its leader fell. And Caldrion realized what he must do.

            He ran with all the speed his legs could muster across to the white horse. He leapt on and, turning to the riders with his sword held high, screamed "Come on! For Aratur!" before turning and charging. There was a yell behind him, and the rumble of hooves resumed, but Caldrion barely heard. He saw Neblis' sword quivering upright in the ground where it had landed after dropping from Neblis' hand during his flight. Leaning over, Caldrion grabbed it in his left hand without breaking stride.

            Caldrion would later recall nothing of the next several minutes except tens and hundreds of orc faces falling before the whirling, inescapable dance of his swords. Man and beast had fought with one mind, and the blood lust was heavy on both.

            The men swarmed over the field. What few orcs remained alive were running as fast as their legs would carry them, which, in most cases, was simply not fast enough. The entire formation had broken. Caldrion looked at the heaps of black bodies and the black blood coating his swords and the red blood clotting on his shoulder and leg where the arrows had nicked him and knew that this victory was no dream.

            Across the field, near the place where they had camped, the men appeared to be gathering. Caldrion turned the horse in a slow trot toward them. He had no trouble identifying the front of the second line; suddenly there were no more orc corpses thickly littering the ground, and the grass grew unperturbed, excepting the occasional arrow or hoofprint.

            The first person Caldrion recognized was the cavalryman Lenniol, who sat on his horse, gaping at Caldrion as he approached. Some of the men said that Lenniol's mind had never fully recovered from falling off his horse when struck by that decapitated orc head, but Caldrion was of the opinion that the man was just naturally dense to begin with. "Well fought, Captain," Lenniol said as he fell in behind Caldrion. 

            Caldrion didn't bother to correct him. The real captain was before them, and it was probably a good thing that the arrow had killed him quickly, because his neck looked like it had rather disgustingly snapped upon landing. He was surprised that he didn't have the urge to retch, but then again this battle had definitely changed something in him, so perhaps he shouldn't be surprised. What worried him more was how little grief he felt now for Neblis. He had never lost a really good friend before, so he had no way of knowing what emotions he should have felt, but somehow he didn't think he would take it this calmly. He put that thought from his head and moved on, Lenniol riding obliviously behind him.

            Graldor had by this time seen Caldrion coming and was gesturing for him to come, but something else arrested his attention: an old man on his knees, in the middle of a circle of orcs, all of which looked as though they had been burned. Sirgo. As Caldrion dismounted and came towards him, he flinched like he was trying to hide, reminding Caldrion of how he himself had acted when he saw Sirgo on that night they had heard the voice. He dropped to one knee. "Are you all right?"

            Sirgo's breathing was heavy but steady. "I think so… I should have known that I could not hold the Dark Lord at bay and fight his minions at the same time. But you could, apparently."

            "No. I don't know what I did, but I saw how the fight was going to end. Graldor was going to die. And as Neblis died, I saw the Enemy watching us. I don't know what I did, but he could no longer see us. At that point I just knew what must be done to secure a victory today, and I did it. The orcs, not the men, are slaughtered, and Graldor is alive and well. Not quite what our unknown Dark Lord intended, I should think."

            "So he wants to see Graldor dead… well, we just have to keep that from happening."

            "Who is he?"

            A slight grin appeared on Sirgo's face. "I am far from being old enough to even guess who he once was, but now he is little more than the personification of pure Evil. And if he wants to kill Graldor to further his evil, we must not let him. I suppose I am not the match for him that I thought I was, but it is easier to fight a foe whose goals you are aware of."

            Sirgo was finally beginning to stand, and Caldrion helped him up. They took a few steps in silence, and then Caldrion asked what had happened to him.

            "I was putting so much energy into trying, unsuccessfully, to keep the Enemy from watching us that I was fighting the orcs purely on instinct without putting any thought or energy into it- a very good way to get an old man killed. It must have been whatever you did to him that brought me back to the present. I was surrounded by probably half-a-dozen orcs, with more coming in behind them. There was no way I could hold them off, so, using some ancient magic, I summoned the power of this land in the form of a ring of fire. It killed the orcs, but I was already so drained that the effort nearly killed _me_. I was lucky the cavalry was around, because any orc in the vicinity could have slain me at that point. But then again, having called upon that power, I cannot stay among you any longer."

            Caldrion uttered a foul expletive that he had probably picked up from the orcs. "Oh yes you can. You aren't going anywhere. And I'll shout down every man in the Army who objects. You've saved us all on more than one occasion, and I expect you will continue to do so." Sirgo flinched as Caldrion clapped him on the shoulder, but otherwise made no response to the comradely gesture except to venture a slight smile.

            They had begun to enter the crowd assembled around Graldor, and his voice drew Caldrion's attention. "And here's our hero of the day!" Sirgo had stopped walking, but when Caldrion did so Sirgo just pushed him forward. "I don't know how he did it, but without his initiative, today would have seen far more of our blood spilled. Today might not have ended in victory. To the Grand Army of Aratur, I present my friend and your new Captain of Cavalry, Caldrion of Numenor!"

            Caldrion was so pleasantly surprised that he forgot to be flustered. Instead he exulted in the sense of pride he felt, closing his eyes and drinking in the cheers and applause. They energized him in a way he had never felt energized before.

            As it got quiet, Graldor continued. "While he leads you, which will be longer than _my_ lifetime, I do not believe you will be defeated." Some small part of Caldrion's brain wanted to deny it, but that part was overwhelmed by his swelling ego.

            Graldor had paused before speaking again. "I was once told that I could be a god in combat, but I tell you now, this man is _truly_ a god in combat."


	9. Temptation's Hour

Author's Notes: Ever so sorry for the long wait. Up front, this chapter has a temporary R rating because, while I tried to err on the side of conservatism, I also had to be graphic enough to convey the unpleasantness of the event described. You've been warned. For those of you familiar with Mary Stewart's Merlin trilogy, this chapter largely follows the model of the night after the battle of  Luguvallium in _The Hollow Hills_. Disclaimer as per previous chapters- Tolkien owns the world, the OCs are mine.

Review responses:

**TreeHugger**- Thank you. Being something of an American Civil War buff, battles are one of the few things I _don't_ have trouble visualizing. As for Neblis, don't get too attached to any of the characters. I can't promise which ones will survive. Annatar probably has contingency plans for dealing with everybody. And yay for Yodaisms. Does anyone, including me, really know everything that's going on here?

**Lady LeBeau**- I wonder who Sirgo really is too. I don't plan on finding out. And a personal warning for this chapter: squickiness ahead. Proceed with caution.

**Dragon-of-the-north**- I'm hoping I can leave you in suspense regarding who will be the Nazgul for at least a bit longer. I hope to leave anyone trying to analyze that question with a conundrum similar to the 'did he poison the glass in front of me or in front of him' problem. To further the mystery, I left Annatar's statement about weakness vague deliberately; he's referring to the man he intends to be a ringwraith. I didn't intend this as a Mouth of Sauron story, but now that you mention it… And, as before, the question remains as to how many factors are influencing events and which events are attributable to which influence.

**Greetings from Mordor**- Thank you. I'm glad the battle lived up to your expectations and was worth the long wait.

Wings of the Storm, Chapter IX- Temptation's Hour

[The entire first part of this chapter was absent from this tale's original tellings, and for very good reason. It was easily replaced by a sentence or two, as it is not highly critical to the plot at large. Nevertheless, it provides a certain depth to a character who otherwise seems morally one-dimensional and it is, in many ways, the fulfillment of all the other material left out of the childhood retellings.]

            The wind began to pick up as the clouds rolled in. The beautiful, sunny morning had deteriorated as the storm first formed in the east and then soared on the currents of the sky into the west. It would be upon them soon, and there was work still to be done before they could seek shelter in the former orc town. As far as Caldrion knew, no one had even entered the settlement yet, which seemed a bit strange but, in light of earlier events, made sense. Sirgo had been feeling sufficiently weak that he had decided to take a nap in the old camp rather than wait until the Army had occupied the town. Graldor had begun to order various small groups to see to the wounded, strip and pile the orc bodies, and other such tasks for cleaning up the battlefield, but the unexpected arrival of another small band of orcs interrupted most of those plans.

            There could not have been more than two dozen of them, and by their demeanor they were merely late arrivals to the now eradicated orc conclave, but their presence quickly led to a running battle, during which the orcs inadvertently led their pursuers to the place where the survivors from the earlier battle had gathered. Consequently, much of the afternoon had been spent chasing around individual orcs. And now that everyone was back on the original battlefield, the imminent rain made clearing the field a higher priority than organizing things in the settlement.

            Caldrion had hardly paid attention to any of it. As he had casually run down orcs all afternoon, his thoughts had been focused not on them but on what had happened that morning. Even though, at an intellectual level, he still did not really understand what he had done or how he had done it, it had not prevented him from spending that time fantasizing about the consequences of his promotion and new standing in the Army. He had all of their respect now, he was sure, and now that he had it there were things, or at least one thing, he could do. Needed to do.

            Claiming on the battlefield the manhood long denied him by the nobles in Aratur had awakened something else in him, a dull ache that had gradually increased to an intense pain as the storm advanced. The field was now clear to Graldor's satisfaction, the sky was exceedingly dark and ominous, for the approaching night now added its own shadows to those of the storm, and as Caldrion dismounted within the walls, the sharp pain became even stronger. He had a different sort of mount in mind… Something he had never done but desperately wanted, no, needed to do.

            And, as was the case for Graldor at Rivertown, the opportunity to do so was found without much difficulty. The rain had begun pouring with a vengeance, and Graldor had simply yelled for everybody to get under a roof and help any captives held within; he would try to organize things after the storm had passed. By a stroke of luck that he never thought to question, Caldrion found himself alone in a rectangular hut that, compared to the cramped and tiny shacks found in most orc settlements, was fairly sizeable; not even his squire, Dunev, had followed him. That is, he was not completely alone, but rather alone with the woman. Other than her sex, there was little he could tell about her in the unlighted room. She looked to be a bit younger than he was, with what was probably light brown hair and what looked to be a very comely face. Which was probably just as well, considering that, in his current state, he would have taken an orc if she had the requisite body parts.

            Rational thought was, at this point, quite beyond him. There was no thundering rain outside, no army nearby, no walls imprisoning him, no floor beneath his feet, only himself, or rather one particularly insistent part of himself, and this woman. And the clothes between him and her, which were quickly and easily dealt with, as were the bonds around her hands and feet. She might have been speaking, but he didn't hear a single word. This was instinct, as instinctual as whatever he had done that morning, though it might have been an age ago considering how little he could remember. There was only her, and she was spectacular.

            He pushed her to the ground and dropped on top of her, asserting his will with an animal lust. He swallowed her screams as his mouth moved rapidly over hers and he plunged into her, his body shaking uncontrollably as he satisfied his pleasure in her, exulting in its violent release.

            The climax had come and gone and Caldrion remained, content in the denouement as he once again became aware that there was warm blood flowing in parts of his body besides the one that had benefited most from this path. One of those other parts was his brain though, disturbingly, his first thoughts were not of the lady at whose expense he had profited but rather wondering why he had not listened to Graldor and done this sooner.

            His sigh of languorous contentment was cut off as he suddenly became aware of someone standing behind him. He turned his head without getting off her. Sirgo. He might have known. He quickly disengaged and rolled away from her.

            The prophet's expression was unreadable, but Caldrion did not need to look at the old man's face to know that he strongly disapproved. He was soaked to the skin, and his eyes had only the slightest hint of life, giving him a haunted, feral appearance. Caldrion's first reaction was frustration and anger at Sirgo for interrupting him before he was completely finished, but at the same time, the ecstasy was leaving him and he felt guilt surging through him.

            Sirgo, though, was not looking at Caldrion, nor at the woman, but staring into one of the dark corners of the room. "Yours?" Caldrion followed his eyes and gasped. He had been so focused on the woman that he had not noticed the children until now. They were huddled in the corner looking frightened out of their wits: a girl of perhaps eight and a boy two or three years younger. He looked from the children to the woman and shuddered with horror and self-loathing. He was as bad as, if not worse than the evil men of the stories. They raped the (mostly) grown daughters in the eyes of their parents, but he had raped the mother in the eyes of her poor innocent children. If Caldrion's belt had still been around his waist, he might have pulled his knife and ended himself then and there, but it was out of reach where he had cast it in his haste.

            The woman turned to Sirgo and shook her head. Though her face was as soaked in tears as Sirgo's was with rain and her lips were bloody where he had bitten them, her voice was fairly well composed. "My niece and nephew. I am…" She sobbed, making a sound that cut through Caldrion more painfully than any of the arrows from that morning. "I was a maid."

            Caldrion rolled on his side and began howling uncontrollably. The manly confidence, the strength, the power that he had felt through his entire being less than an hour ago had evaporated into thin air. What had he done? Had he cast away the good man he once was to secure the victory this morning? What was happening? How had he become such an instrument of evil? And why, when he should be trying to somehow make amends, could he do nothing but cry?

            In the absence of light, Caldrion had no idea how long he had lain there weeping, but when he looked up, the woman and children were gone and he was dimly aware of Sirgo standing over him. He leaned down and gave a grim smile. "I would offer you a cloth to wipe your face, but I doubt anything on my person is any drier."

            Caldrion rubbed his eyes with his hands and looked into Sirgo's eyes. "My God, what have I done?"

            Sirgo's expression looked surprisingly nonjudgmental. "You can't stand in the sun without casting a shadow into the night. This morning the power within you awoke, power that can be used for good but also led astray to commit ill."

            "I was not led astray. I knew full well what I was doing, but I did not care."

            "I think not. The power is too great and terrible to imagine, and, in my experience at least, it goes wither it will. This morning you brought it forth, and for a time bent it to your own will, but either the slaughter of orcs was unable to satisfy its lust for control or it was driven by other means to this."

            "Are you trying to tell me that I am not at fault? Because if you are, then you are lying." Caldrion's voice rose as he came to his feet. The anger he had been directing toward himself was finding a new target. "It was not some abstract power that violated that poor woman, it was my member." Realizing that his aforementioned member was still in the open, he hurried to restore his attire, still angrily berating himself. "My lips defiled hers, whose beauty I should not even have aspired to touch. Damn it, what does that make me?" He reached for his belt. "I am nothing, not a captain of Aratur, not even worthy to be called a slave thereof. I can't stay here. I have cast a poor reflection on Graldor. I must leave. Have a nice life. I doubt I'll get to see you again before they cast me into the void." And he started toward the exit.

            Sirgo blocked him. "And what was it you told me this morning? Something to the effect of 'You aren't going anywhere'? You cannot leave. You are here because the Valar appointed _you_ to protect Graldor. If you leave, I cannot do that alone. Your purpose is here. And, when the horn blows to recall them, your descendants' purpose will likewise be here. Your purpose will be here fulfilled, and theirs likewise, but the interim will not be pleasant. The road north is fraught with sorrows. By the river they will join with the bears and the trees, become one with the exiles of the exiles. They will flee the decay of the green, overcoming the broken shadow of the black ghost, whose brother you know and whose master you have met. In the north they will grow, a chained wind waiting to fly across the meadow. There they will dwell, until chance comes, and time calls them elsewhere.

            "Such is the nature of this night. That which is sown will not pass without remark. The Valar work in mysterious ways. You've cast your shadow; now bring it into the light."

            Caldrion blinked. Sirgo blinked and shook his head. "Sorry. Did I just say anything important?"

            Caldrion blinked again. At least Sirgo was also having a surreal day. "I do not know. I think the gist was that I should not leave Aratur, which at this point I think may be the best course of action."

            Caldrion wasn't sure why he felt compelled to seek her out, knowing that no words could atone for what he had done, but he had to at least try to apologize, at least try to tell her that he was not the monster she thought he was. He and Sirgo had already spoken to Graldor, who accepted Caldrion's contrite confession without comment. Though on the previous campaign he had made an effort to prevent relations of a non-consensual nature between the soldiers and the newly freed captives, he had also turned a blind eye to the few who had committed such acts, perhaps because his own tendencies occasionally approached the same thing. So Graldor's forgiveness had not really surprised Caldrion, though it was not Graldor's forgiveness that Caldrion desperately needed.

            He found her sitting with a mixed group of soldiers and former slaves around one of the fires. In its red glow, she somehow looked different. The comeliness of her face was even more obvious, and the blue of her eyes was readily apparent. She did not look as distraught as she had when Sirgo found her, but she also had not yet noticed the approach of her attacker. Nevertheless, there was more color to her face than he would have expected of someone whose maidenhood he had forcibly taken only a couple hours past.

            And then she looked toward him and it hit him with a force equal to that of the orc blow that had broken his helm that morning. The red glow about her did not come exclusively from the fire. She was the red-haired woman from his dreams.


	10. To Have and to Hold

Author's Notes: See previous disclaimers. The OCs and OLs (original locations) are mine, the rest belongs to Tolkien. Some romance in this chapter, but nothing sexual, so we're out of the woods as far as that's concerned.

Responses to reviewers:

**Dragon-of-the-north**: There are many reasons this story is called what it is, the last of which will come in the tale's last sentence. As for Caldrion, he clearly wasn't himself for the first part of that chapter, but there may have been other factors in play (once again, the question arises of who's pulling the strings here and how many beings _think_ they're in control). He was probably calling on the Valar collectively, but I'll leave it to your imagination. I will say that she literally _is_ the woman in his dreams (as per Chapter VII).

**Lady LeBeau**: Don't worry, Caldrion's indiscretion was merely a one-shot (though necessary for where the plot will be going). And not all men's hearts are so easily corrupted, I'll have you know. Just those controlled by authors who've read too many Arthurian legends.

**TreeHugger**: I got goosebumps reading your review simply because it proved that I had successfully conveyed what I had hoped to. Your comments about no man being an island and the consequences of our actions were dead on, especially given that the primary reason for the affair in that chapter was because it has repercussions at the end of the tale. And, for the record, the prophecy predates the rest of the chapter; I'd written it but it took me some time to figure out the larger context for it.

Wings of the Storm, Chapter X- To Have and to Hold

[Since my father's additions to the story resulted in the fall of one of the protagonists, redemption is in order. Unlike his fairly detailed retelling of the fall, however, the redemption was only told briefly and, to my ears, unsatisfactorily. As a consequence, all but a few sentences in the first part of this chapter are my own rather than his, as I have attempted to remedy that lack of detail.]

            Caldrion never knew from whence he had gotten the strength to approach her. How did a victim normally react when her attacker approached and, in addition to apologizing, expressed a desire to get to know her better? Catrilas had done about what Caldrion expected. She was initially tentative and dubious of his motivations, but she did not reject him, perhaps out of fear of what would happen to her or the children if she did. Though the prevailing morality of Graldor's kingdom meant that there was little concern that she would be shunned as 'damaged goods,' the fact that Caldrion was a ranking figure in the Army made her afraid that, if she refused his attempts to offer her kindness and protection, he might bring her or her niece and nephew further harm. Unlike Caldrion, she did not have pleasant, recurring dreams about him, dreams in which he was her husband. If she did have dreams about him, they could only have been nightmares.

            Partly as penance, and partly out of fear that his emotions would again overcome his reason, Caldrion spent the remainder of the campaign in that first orc village, seeing as best he could to the hurts and needs of the poor folk who until recently had been slaves. He refused to partake in the skirmishes with those orcs who had remained behind in the smaller settlements, guarding their captives, but instead labored to tender kindness to those who had lately known only pain or at best indifference. During that time, he had struggled to take advantage of situations in which he could talk to her without coming across as stalking her. He needed to find a way to apologize to her, but he also still had hope that she could learn to look past his initial evil deed and see him as he really was.

            If Caldrion was driven by guilt and a love for which there was no rational explanation, Catrilas stayed around him for purely practical reasons. Having come through her captivity relatively unscathed and being more knowledgeable in herbs and other medicinal arts than he was, she began assisting his attempts to aid the others, and as they worked together it became progressively easier to talk. Before long, Caldrion was telling her things that he had never fully expressed to anyone in Aratur: his ongoing struggle for respect and recognition from his seniors back home, his close friendship with and ongoing concern for Graldor, and especially his ongoing attempts to come to terms with the power that had awakened in him. He did not, however, discuss the night they had met. On an intellectual level, he knew how painful it would be for her to talk about it, but on an emotional level he was still completely overwhelmed with guilt and knew he would break down if the fact that he was a rapist was mentioned.

            Catrilas, fortunately, seemed no more inclined to talk about it than he was. Instead, he heard the highlights of her recent experiences. She did not know much about her family's origins, except that neither her parents nor grandparents could remember a time living somewhere besides their little homestead in the downs to the north. Being small and out of the way, the only hostile visitors they had were in small enough troops as to be easily disposed of. Not so the band that attacked them a couple months prior. The orcs had killed all the men in fairly short order and then rounded up the others, mercilessly slaughtering them all except Catrilas, her sister, and her sister's children, who they led back to this fairly sizeable orc settlement. None of them had been harmed for the first several days of their stationary captivity, until Ashlug had arrived and conclusively determined which of the sisters was the mother. Fleorie was deemed expendable, but Ashlug announced that Catrilas was the one with the "higher purpose." She was not to be touched or forced to work, but neither was she to be given an opportunity to escape and, even on the day of her liberation, she did not get that chance.

            Fleorie was put to work in short order, cooking for her captors among other things, with her children held as hostages for her good behavior. That had not proved a sufficient deterrent, however, because she had attempted to escape at the first opportunity. It was only with great difficulty that the orcs brought her back, bruised and bleeding from several wounds (though, in fairness, none of those who recaptured her looked like they would feel particularly good the next morning either). The orcs had decided to kill her son, Teorand, out of spite, but Catrilas somehow got her hands on a knife and threatened to kill herself if Teorand or his older sister Eoscla were harmed. Ashlug had come, and managed to break the impasse by personally guaranteeing the safety of the children if Catrilas surrendered the knife. When another orc objected, Ashlug had merely replied that "When the time comes for her to fulfill her purpose, the children will be dealt with." Following that ominous statement, Catrilas hesitated, but Ashlug had merely strode up to her and taken the knife from her hand before walking out. The other orcs followed, dragging Fleorie behind them. Based on the nature of the screams Catrilas heard that night and the fact that she had not seen her sister since, she assumed that Fleorie had been tortured and killed. She cried much after that, both for the loss of her last surviving adult relative and because she blamed herself for not asking for her sister's safety as well.

            Despite her fears about orc reprisals against the children, however, Eoscla and Teorand had not been harmed. Though cruel, the orcs, or at least this Ashlug, had proved honorable. Which was more than she could say for her liberator, at least initially. Catrilas had caught him off guard and was angrily elucidating what she felt that night. Listening to her talk about what he had done was more painful than anything else Caldrion had ever experienced. She vented her tears and shame at him and, hearing about the degree to which he had hurt and shamed her only increased the oppressive sense of guilt he felt, especially considering that there was no way he could respond, because everything she said was true and he had no excuse. The fact that he had done such an awful thing behind which there was no reason whatsoever continued to haunt him. Especially after her outburst, he cried himself to sleep almost every night, tears for the lovely woman he had violated, and tears for that unforgivable sin he had committed.

            It was on one such night that she walked into the hut he had claimed for his own. Why she had come, he would never find out, because the first thing she did was ask him why he was weeping. Caldrion could not remember what he had answered, but he must have told her the truth because she came over to him, put her hand on his shoulder and, looking him in the eye, told him that she had forgiven him. "If I hadn't forgiven you, I would have killed you the other day." He had only continued weeping, saying that his actions, so abhorrent to the Valar, were unworthy of her forgiveness. And then she asked him directly, "Was it true, as Sirgo said, that you had no such experience before that night?" Something in her blue eyes made it apparent that more than Sirgo's credibility was riding on his answer. He nodded, adding "And I wish I could take it back. My first time should have been with the love I feel for the loveliest woman I've ever met, not the evil lust I subjected her to."

            At that point, she did something for which he was forever grateful but could never understand. She hugged him tightly, as though he were a hurt child, began stroking his hair, and told him, "Nevertheless, I forgive you. You are not the same man who raped me. No amount of tears can change what is behind us, just as no amount of tears can undo my stupid failure to ask for my sister's safety as well. We have new lives before us, which we cannot live in the past. I forgive you; can you forgive yourself?"

            Caldrion sobbed again. If she could forgive him, then all he could do was accept her forgiveness and promise that he would never again lose control of himself like that. He answered her embrace, letting her squeeze out the last of his tears. Holding and being held by her felt so natural that it only gradually occurred to him what was going on. These were indeed strange times if the victim should knowingly and willingly take her attacker in her arms to comfort him. And then he most unexpectedly felt her lips lightly brushing his cheek. He turned to look at her, and the light in her eyes told him the answer before he even asked the question. "Could you fall in love with the man who committed the worst crime possible against you?" She broke eye contact, looked down toward her feet, licked her lips, and met his gaze again. "I think I already have." She leaned toward him, but rather suddenly pulled back. "And that isn't exactly true. You could have killed me." She leaned forward again, and this time their lips met. This was their real first kiss. She had forgiven him, and was treating him as though their first, and decidedly one-sided, intimate experience was forgotten. That kiss, however, was one he would not let himself forget.

[The ceremony that follows is my attempt at a reasonable reconstruction. My father witnessed and related in some detail one particular ceremony that was simultaneously a contemporary human wedding and an ancient elven marriage and, of course, I have first-hand experiences with weddings as well. I have thus tried to guess at the nature of a ceremony that is between the elven and human weddings while also having the simplicity of our modern ceremonies, a simplicity which I imagine would prevail in a society as far removed from the elven sources as this one was.]

            Compared to what had come before, the next thing Caldrion had to do was easy. The largest hurdle that remained for him to overcome was his own amazement that Catrilas was amenable to his affections despite the nature of his first encounter with her. Her family had practiced marriage, though the ceremony had consisted only of a short exchange of vows, but she certainly knew what he had meant when he asked her to marry him and had not hesitated in saying yes.

            So it was that, not long after the Grand Army of Aratur made its triumphant return thereto, Caldrion and Catrilas stood opposite each other before Graldor's throne, directly in front of which the King stood. The hall was, as on the night that the ring had first come into their lives, full of people and set for a feast.

            Graldor opened the ceremony. "Before the Valar and, coincidentally, in the sight of the people, Caldrion and Catrilas have come to exchange vows of marriage. If there are no objections, I would request that they be allowed to do so before we begin our celebration of the Feast of St. Gwindor."

            Even though he had known what was coming, Caldrion had to stifle a giggle as the assembled crowd remained silent. There had been no question in Graldor's mind that his friend's wedding merited a feast, but he was unwilling to justify the wedding feast as such because, on the one hand, one of the principals was a rapist (though, thanks to efforts of the King and Sirgo, few knew that the affair was anything more than rumor) and, on the other hand, Graldor himself was, to say the least, not an upstanding example of the lifelong monogamy that Caldrion and Catrilas were advocating by their actions. Hence the canonization of another character from the stories of Graldor's youth.

            Satisfied that none were objecting, Graldor nodded. "Good. As I am given to understand," he said while glancing at Caldrion and Sirgo, "the custom of marriage was ordained by the Valar to the Firstborn to both promote singular commitment among partners and to provide a stable environment in which to raise children. In that tradition, I call upon the Valar to sit in judgment of Caldrion and Catrilas as they confess their love and promise to remain faithful to each other. Catrilas?"

            Caldrion turned to her, still wondering how the women of the town had made her look even more beautiful than she did ordinarily. He thought her hair had been radiant before, but tonight it shone so brightly that, had he the skill to do so, he could have read by its light. And words failed to describe the white gown they had made for the bride of the town's hero. It was not only more ornate than anything seen in Aratur before then but would probably have sufficed for a fairly well-to-do girl in Numenor. He found it hard to remember that this was not a dream and she was not an angel.

            She took a deep breath before beginning her statement. One of the traditions of the nomads with whom Sirgo had lived was that the woman always said her vow first, to hopefully prevent her from being forced into marriage against her will. Graldor thought it would be particularly fitting, and slightly ironic, to use that tradition for this ceremony. "In sight of these witnesses here assembled, I confess that I do love you, Captain Caldrion of Aratur and of Numenor, with all my heart and mind, and I swear to you that I will be faithful to you in body and spirit, to the exclusion of all others. I swear to honor, obey, and cherish you as long as there is breath in my body. I swear that where you are, whether in danger, sorrow, illness, or the boundless joy that I hope to have with you, there will I be. I call upon the Valar to attend my vows and strike me down should I fail to uphold them, now or in the future."

            Graldor paused for some seconds, letting the weight of what Catrilas had just sworn sink in, and then turned to Caldrion. "In the sight of the Valar, my Lord Graldor, and the assembled people of Aratur, I, Caldrion of Numenor, confess that I do love you, Fair Lady Catrilas of the Northern Downs, with all of my heart and mind, and I swear that I will be faithful to you in body and spirit, to the exclusion of all others. I swear to honor and cherish you in any and all circumstances. If I should be found unfaithful in my oath to you, may the Valar, through their agent King Graldor, strike off the offending member. I love you more than I do my own life, and where you are, there I will be, if not in body than in spirit."

            Graldor was smirking, because Caldrion had not told him of that particular embellishment, but with the vows spoken, he stepped back, allowing Sirgo to come forward. Caldrion and Catrilas each took a step toward the other and clasped hands, which Sirgo put one hand above and the other below. "These vows having been spoken, may the Valar bless this marriage. May Caldrion and Catrilas be given the strength to persevere in their oaths and the patience to live their pledges daily. May their union be made fruitful and happy, and may their days be filled with peace, joy, and love."

            Graldor, a grin broadening on his face, proclaimed "In accordance with the promises made today, I declare you duly married husband and wife." Caldrion took another step toward his wife, but she practically leaped into his arms. They kissed quite fervently while townsfolk applauded, some politely and others with a bit more gusto, and parted only as the food began appearing on the tables. "I've been waiting to do that all afternoon," Catrilas stated. Caldrion did not say out loud what he had been waiting all afternoon to do, but he assumed that his face must have betrayed him, because she giggled and said "Later. First we eat."

[After that fairly long diversion, it is now time for me to return to the words of my father and for the story to shift its focus back toward Graldor.]

            Two days after the wedding, it was time for a more somber event stemming from that fateful battle day. An earthen mound had been raised along the path leading up to the gates of Aratur, on the edge of the fields where he had trained many of the young warriors to ride. In its hollow, rocks had been stacked to make a bier: the final resting place of Neblis.

            Graldor, Caldrion, Sirgo, and Ared, one of his cavalrymen, offered memories of the deceased and expressed their hopes that his spirit would be at peace. After the body was laid in the tomb and sealed in with beams of wood and soil, those who wished, mostly the soldiers and others he had taught, laid little white flowers upon the mound, what would become a living memorial to one of the original members of Aratur, a man respected without exception by those who knew him, at least as far as Caldrion was aware. While the flowers were deposited and the people returned to their homes, the four speakers kept watch; Graldor stood next to the mound, his hands fidgeting with impatience, Ared knelt in reverence, and Sirgo and Caldrion stood some distance away. Between the lingering giddiness over his marriage and his wife's apparently successful attempts to convince her niece and nephew that they could in fact trust and love him, Caldrion was having an extremely difficult time keeping a broad smile off his face.

            While telling Sirgo about the latter in the softest tones he could muster, however, Caldrion noticed that the old man seemed rather distracted and disturbed. "What is it?" Sirgo shook his head. "I do not know, and that concerns me. We have killed large numbers of orcs, more than doubled our population with the addition of their former slaves, and are generally in a fairly strong strategic position toward the long-term goal of conquering and settling these plains. And yet I am unable to shake this feeling. I worry that I might be missing something, that Graldor is more important in the scheme of things than we thought, or that his destiny may not be to found an empire on this sea of grass."

            Caldrion was silent for a moment. He was unsure what to reply, but was spared the need to do so by Ared who, having allowed the last mourner to lay a flower, had risen to his feet and was now walking back into town. Sirgo began walking that same path and Caldrion, after pausing for a few more breaths of silence, followed. At the edge of the buildings, he turned back and was greeted by a decidedly strange sight.

            Graldor had leapt on top of the mound, his arms raised in supplication but his fists clenched, and his gaze turned not to the Valar in the west but rather toward the east. As Caldrion watched, Graldor dropped to his knees, his fists gliding close over the surface of the mound and his nose conspicuously sniffing the air. Caldrion wondered how his King could become so grief-stricken over a death that had happened some weeks past but decided it best not to intervene. Turning back toward the town, he heard Graldor wailing. Or at least he wanted to believe it was wailing. It could have been laughing, in which case it was the most frightening laughter he had ever heard.


	11. The Last Calm

(A/N: World Tolkien's; OCs and OLs mine. Got it?  
As the title might imply, I -shock and awe- actually know where the story is going to go from here on out. The only problem is finding time to write it. As the title might also imply, this chapter, and the next two to a lesser extent, serve to set the stage for subsequent events more than anything else.)

Responses to Reviewers:  
**Dragon-of-the-north**: You call that a -short- review? I'm not sure I want to know how long you take to write a -long- one. The narrator will be signing the end of the manuscript, so you'll find out who he is then, though it isn't really central to anything, just me trying to cover myself. Thank you for your kind and insightful comments about the romance; I actually found that more difficult to write than the events of the previous chapter, so I'm glad it was both effective and thought-provoking. Though it won't be explicit within the story, I think that, given the parallels between the _Silmarillion_ and _Paradise Lost_, it makes sense that men of the second age have a worldview that is similar to our own and could use the same vocabulary, i.e. the Maiar as angels, Angband as Hell, the creatures thereof as demons. Why Catrilas was spared will probably go unexplained; I think Ashlug had orders from higher up to keep her alive and beautiful, and perhaps she has already fulfilled her purpose but the power of love and forgiveness kept her purpose from actually accomplishing anything constructive as far as said higher up is concerned. Yes, I canonized Gwindor largely for you, and I'm thinking that Caldrion may even let slip to Noseless that he was married on St. Gwindor's Day, so Half-Dead may actually know of his elevation… And yes, of course this is pre-Rohan: the title does not refer only to our future Ringwraith.  
**TreeHugger**: Caldrion is following a pattern that, in my mind, differentiates his descendants from most other humans, namely that they fall, albeit in less direct and severe ways, and emerge stronger and more noble than before because they acknowledge their past (as opposed to a certain other group of humans who either never fall or fall all the way). Thank you also for your commentary on Caldrion and Catrilas; I'm really glad that this story has more morals than your average fanfic. Yes, Dragon has gotten to me (at least to the point where I can write a noble orc as a minor character). I just thought that Caldrion's character would want to add that statement, both as a more immediate way to keep himself honest should a similar situation arise and also to prove to Catrilas how much he loves her in words that could not eventually become meaningless.

Wings of the Storm, Chapter XI- The Last Calm

[As previously noted, there are questions about why my father would tell this story to us before we were fully grown. I think that here the reason he did so begins to become clear. This was a story he told _his_ children because it asserts that even the children of great ones can change the course of history.]

So the years passed. Caldrion came to the height of his maturity, wherein he might, if given the opportunity, live for centuries. The old (including the noble farmers Orthior and Tatalis) withered into death, the young aged. Only two seemed unchanged: Graldor, perhaps sustained by his position or some inborn strength, and Sirgo, who when he first appeared in Aratur already looked older than any man they had ever seen, so perhaps he had merely achieved that age at which the body can no longer seem older.

There were no more orc campaigns; the only concentrations that Sirgo and the now-aged Frealine knew of for certain were those fairly close to the Great River in the east, and those were too distant and too widespread for the people of Aratur to consider challenging for the time being. Frealine thought it probable that some had settled near the fords of the river Angren, probably putting a dent in the forests of the area, and Catrilas suspected that there was at least one orc base further north and west along the Onodlo than the others that Graldor had already defeated, but neither of those were certain enough to mount an expedition that might simply be the search for a non-existent foe. Nevertheless, the Grand Army of Aratur had grown and was now entirely a mounted force, which gave Graldor greater striking range, which he had not yet used, and the ability to conduct wider defensive patrols.

Caldrion was now the head of a fairly noteworthy family. In addition to the niece and nephew he had adopted for all practical purposes, he was now the proud father of two sons sandwiched in age by a pair of daughters. This not-so-little family was further extended by the addition of Graldor, who the children, with the possible exception of Othcyr, his eldest daughter, viewed as a beloved, if often distracted, uncle.

Caldrion could not really understand what was going on with Graldor. The King had not withdrawn into the high and mighty 'do I know you?' method of ruling that he had adopted after killing Deol, but he was not the casual, out among the people, lead by example King that he had been. Nor, for which Caldrion was also pleased, did he occasionally provide immature jokes and pranks as he did in his rather extended youth. He could be both polite and friendly when addressed, but when not otherwise engaged he would seem preoccupied with staring into space rather than seeking someone to talk to as he once had. As an aside, that particular behavior of Graldor had served as inspiration to all the young men of Aratur. They could now stare shamelessly at attractive females and, if caught, merely protest that the woman was "between me and my space."

But the situation was, at the very least, stable. Graldor clearly remained his own man and was not showing any particularly disturbing behaviors, unless one were to consider the fact that four or five of his favorites were now living in the palace as his harem disturbing. Caldrion, Sirgo, Frealine, and basically everyone except the young warriors who wished to emulate him hoped that he would just pick one of them, get married, and beget an heir already, but all of them also acknowledged that this perceived degeneration was simply the natural progression of his appetite for female companionship. In a concession to prodding from Melgras, the last remaining of the original noble farmers, who hoped that his loyalty might be rewarded, Graldor had agreed to name an heir in the absence of one of his body, even though his appearance and health indicated that he had many good years ahead of him.

Much to Melgras' chagrin and Caldrion's embarrassment, Graldor, taking advantage of a flair for showmanship presumably acquired during the defeat of Deol, hosted another huge feast in Aratur and arranged, through a bit of clever patrol scheduling, for Caldrion to come into the hall, dressed in his full armor, just as the King proclaimed the Numenorean his heir for the time being. Luckily for Caldrion, Fremus did not use his talent for impressive-sounding titles on the new royal. Even at formal occasions, he was only announced as Caldrion, Heir to the Throne of Aratur and Captain of Cavalry. He had managed to persuade Graldor to reserve the title of Prince for the legitimate heir that he sincerely hoped would arrive in time.

That was something Caldrion needed to remember: though Graldor did not appear to have physically changed, his mind and personality clearly showed that he was no longer and would never be again the carefree chieftain worried only about the survival of his town on the plains rather than his destiny regarding the entirety thereof. He wanted to more aggressively pursue the goals Annatar had laid out for him: conquest, agriculture, and defense. None of the other leaders were particularly enthused by such a course of action. Despite the fact that Calenardhon saw no regular trade, meaning that the towns had to be entirely self-sufficient, both Aratur and Hillguard were prospering, which meant that Graldor did not need a war or a large-scale agricultural expansion to distract the people.

Sirgo was out of the towns more often than not, personally exploring the largely unknown territory beyond the usual patrol routes around Aratur. Frealine and Halin were busy with their new project. After the near disaster during the second orc campaign, Frealine had come to the conclusion that Aratur needed archers of its own and had gone through the long and fairly arduous process of teaching himself how to use a bow before he had sought out and begun training other soldiers with good eyes and dexterous arms to do likewise. Halin, Frealine's most successful pupil and now, along with Smosur, whom Graldor had truly forgiven for following Deol, a leader of the Grand Army in his own right, was going through the equally difficult process of learning to shoot accurately from horseback, so that eventually all the archers, small in number though they were, could be mounted in battle rather than merely in transit. Melgras was busy teaching and delegating his duties to the relatively new noble farmers: Betlin, Dunev, and Gripler. Fremus, never much of a leader to begin with, had, at Graldor's suggestion, degenerated into being little more than a valet for the harem girls. And Caldrion was spending as much time as possible with the children of Aratur, particularly his own, trying to make them experts in the fine arts of swordsmanship and horse riding.

Caldrion looked up from Hrethere, his younger son, whom he was helping with a compound attack move, at the sound of Othcyr's triumphant yell. His eldest had been sparring with her older cousin Teorand and had not only matched him evenly but had pushed him back hard enough that he had tripped, allowing her to move her blunt blade to his throat and claim victory. As Caldrion approached to congratulate her, Teorand grudgingly accepted her hand to help him back to his feet, clearly disgruntled at not only losing to a lady but losing to one so much younger than him. He scowled, assuming a defensive posture, but she remained at ease and laughed lightly at him, as though she were one of the Hillguard women he had, without much success, been attempting to woo. Teorand lunged to resume the fighting and did not entirely catch himself when, in his peripheral vision, he saw Caldrion striding toward them. Teorand lost his balance and would have fallen had Othcyr not caught him. Visibly embarrassed, Teorand shook off her grip and nodded, "Uncle."

"Keep your weight forward when you retreat. It will give you a better chance of staying on your feet, or at least not baring your throat, if your back foot slips. And remember that you are fairly strong; don't just give ground when your sword blocks hers." He turned to his daughter. "Well done, but don't get too confident. Remember that you are a woman, and as such your advantage will lie in quickness more than strength." She nodded, but not happily. He had always underestimated her strength and prowess with a blade, and would probably continue to do so.

He turned to head back to the others when something else occurred to him. "And try not to range so far when you spar. When you aren't fighting on horse, you will most likely be in close quarters where you either will be unable or unwilling to give much ground, so you should practice like that."

As her father walked away, Othcyr's abashed face turned to a grin, the fire in her eyes setting off her bright golden hair. "That lazy father of mine! He only said that so he would not have to walk as far to talk to us." Teorand did not answer, but only shifted his sword to resume the match. He had no intention of letting her beat him again.

Back with the others, Caldrion resumed the instruction of his sons. Eodryn, the elder, was a more than competent swordsman when he set his mind to what he was doing but wildly erratic when he became emotionally involved in his battle. Eodryn, his father, his siblings, and even his mother (who had insisted that her husband teach her how to use a sword so she could defend herself if she ever encountered an orc or a rapist again) all bore nicks and bruises from such uncontrolled clashes. Hrethere showed far less interest in swordsmanship than in archery, about which his father knew next to nothing. Halin, another who Caldrion's children viewed as an uncle, taught and encouraged Hrethere. While Caldrion did not deny that his son had a far better eye than he did, he also insisted that Hrethere be at least adequate with a sword so he could defend himself at close quarters.

Elsewhere, Catrilas was enjoying a pleasant summer ride with Eadgla, their youngest, who had only recently gotten her own pony and thus was still thrilled even by the gentle demeanor and slow pace of the creature. Catrilas, moreso than her husband, believed in encouraging whatever talents her children possessed, but the importance of at least competence as a rider was critical in this culture where the role of horses was becoming more and more central. Othcyr was little more than that; she preferred to fight on foot when given the opportunity and was never completely comfortable when she was not on her own two feet. Eodryn rode as he fought; brilliantly when he was focused on the task at hand but without control when he thought he had mastered it and was merely enjoying the wind on his face. Hrethere had proved to be good at riding smaller creatures, and Catrilas expected that Caldrion would soon arrange for him have one of the mares descended from Aroch, which ran very smoothly and thus would serve him well in his goal to be a horse archer like Halin.

The only charge of Caldrion who was not spending the afternoon practicing at one thing or another on the fields outside Aratur was his niece. Eoscla was doing what would have been her aunt's duties for the household, today laundering the clothes and preparing for a family supper. Unlike the rest of her family, she much preferred such domestic tasks to the rigors of riding and sparring. Not the least of the reasons for her preference was the opportunity to flirt with the young soldiers when they were around and gossip about them with the other young women when they were not. Caldrion did his best to turn a blind eye to such activities because, while he did not disapprove of them as long as they remained innocent, he had come into Eoscla's life too late to establish himself as a strong authority figure and felt he was in no position to affect her chosen way of life. And he also had to concede that, for a woman who should be seriously considering marriage, spending time with the soldiers was probably more productive than continuing to spar with boys several years younger than her. Her brother was the closest to her in age, and he was still on the practice fields only because a knee injury sustained shortly before he was to become a member of the Army had kept him off the field for more than a year and forced him to relearn much that he had been good at before. His lack of progress recently had Caldrion worried that his nephew might find himself a farmer after all.

Catrilas, on the other hand, did not watch Teorand's progress from day to day but followed Eoscla's activities as best she could, was convinced that her neice thought of Graldor and Halin as something other than uncles, and worried that the only reason she was still a maid was because she could not decide which was her favorite. Catrilas disapproved of her niece's choice of both men simply on the grounds that both were much older than she, nevermind that the former was a womanizer who already kept multiple girlfriends and the latter, while never the wandering lover the King was, certainly was not the innocent, surprisingly young looking man he seemed to be, as evidenced by his earlier involvement with Farvas (who had eventually settled down with Yilisond, the soldier, who had apparently decided that her beauty outweighed his desire for a voluptuous woman).

Back out in the field, trouble was brewing. What should have been simple practicing between Teorand and Othcyr had turned into an all-out fight, exacerbated by the deep psychological wounds each bore. Perhaps because he had lost his mother to the consequences of her own wild spirit so young, Teorand's general views of women were narrow and rather chauvinistic, and, his pride still stinging from his earlier defeat, he chose to punctuate every blow with a remark on the inferiority of females in general and his tomboy of a cousin in particular, who did not pursue the womanly tasks as his sister did and was, in his opinion, thoroughly unfit for the only other use women had in his mind, namely making babies. This in turn raised Othcyr's ire, for Teorand was speaking bluntly of views that she knew Graldor harbored, based on his behavior, and suspected her father of holding, based on the sparseness of his praise for her compared to the lavish congratulations he bestowed on Eodryn, even though he could only rarely best her on foot with a sword. Her chosen mode of retaliation involved fewer words and progressively more aggressive attacks.

Despite the bluntness of the swords, each had given the other a substantial number of nicks and bruises. Both had largely forgotten that this was not a real life-or-death struggle. Teorand feinted high and, when she moved to block him, he struck her just above the knee with enough force to rip the fabric and knock her off balance. "Curse your father for not killing Aunt Catrilas after he raped her. A man should at least have the decency to do that so he won't be later burdened by worthless monsters like you," he spat.

Were Othcyr listening from a distance, she might have concluded that he was furious with the whole world at the ill luck that had befallen him all his life, from the loss of his mother to the strong possibility that he would no longer be a soldier, and not taken personal offense. Standing immediately in front of him, however, she lacked the perspective to react to anything but the horribly cruel insults to her parents and to herself. She roared and, with a focus that would have reminded her father of his attack on the orc archers had he seen her, stormed toward Teorand. She easily brushed aside his attempt to block her and gave him an impressively deep cut on his sword arm considering the blade's lack of sharpness, causing him to drop his own weapon. As he tried to back away, she landed a shallow cut across his stomach. At this point, Teorand probably avoided dying that day by stepping close to her and grabbing her wrist, twisting it until she too dropped her sword. He failed to press his advantage, however, releasing her sprained wrist and taking a step back. Her right fist broke his nose and her left, following immediately thereafter, hit him in the jaw and knocked him down.

She was on top of him before he could move, her legs straddling his chest while she pulled out the dagger she always kept on her person. She looked down on him, the wild ferocity in her eyes frightening him so much that his pants became wetter and he could not muster the will to scream. "My father is not a killer," she said, annunciating every word in a voice that sounded as deadly as it was soft. "No one ever insults Mom and Dad like that."

Her already battered right hand forced his mouth open. Ignoring the pain in her hand as, realizing what she was about to do, he sunk his teeth into her fingers, she brought up the knife and, in a thoroughly messy manner, removed most of his tongue. Teorand probably passed out immediately, but that did not keep her from reinforcing the message by battering her fists against his head and chest.

Closer to the town, Caldrion had noticed that he could no longer see them sparring. His concern grew as he drew near to where they had been and could not hear them. Finally, he came upon the macabre sight. His nephew was lying on his back, his face bleeding profusely, while his daughter punched the defenseless form repeatedly, mindlessly, with a bloodlust that was disturbingly familiar.


	12. A Sane Kind of Madness

(Author's Notes: I humbly apologize for taking so long to post this. The usual disclaimers apply.)  
Review Responses:  
**Dragon-of-the-north**: Thank you for comparing my fiction to history. Maybe there's hope for me after all. If you think Othcyr is a Proto-Eowyn now… Glad that the complicated consequences of events came through clearly. During this third act, the distinction between cause and effect is becoming quite blurred. And yes, events are getting beyond Caldrion's control as they move toward catastrophe.  
**Lady LeBeau**: For some reason, "evil little pre-ringwraith" cracks me up every time I read it. "Between me and my space" is a line stolen from my brother (though, as far as I know, he's never used it for the purposes that the young Araturians do). A therapist in Middle-earth? That could be pretty amusing- something to write in your copious free time :-)  
**TreeHugger**: You're right about consequences being inescapable- and Caldrion certainly hasn't yet faced all the consequences of that action. Glad that I've succeeded in making time pass quickly :-) I suspect that he was a fairly good father, though I somehow doubt that anyone could overcome the problematic nature and nurture that conspire against his charges. Thank you for your complimentary statements.

Wings of the Storm, Chapter XII- A Sane Kind of Madness

Two nights later, Graldor held a long-planned council meeting. He was intending to discuss what plans, if any, should be made for the summer. However, the big news among the people of Aratur remained the shockingly brutal fight between Caldrion's daughter and his nephew. In short order, that had become the first issue to be addressed.

Over Caldrion's vehement protests that he could handle his daughter, Graldor had insisted that Othcyr be kept in one of the cells in the palace, usually used only by soldiers too drunk to be allowed to roam the town. Her hand and wrist had been bandaged, and it was hoped that she would be able to use it again once it healed cleanly. She had not talked to anyone since Caldrion had found her, and, despite visits from both her parents, she alternated between stony silence and incoherent crying.

Teorand, on the other hand, was in fairly bad shape physically as well as mentally. Caldrion's sacrifice of most of his garments had kept his nephew from bleeding to death before help could come, but he had still lost huge amounts of blood. Though he had regained consciousness, he had shown no real signs of life; he either could not or would not move, even to nod his head, without extensive prodding. He could now swallow liquids without bringing up blood shortly afterwards, but the incision on his arm was still oozing and the healer was concerned about it becoming infected.

As soon as Sirgo had returned so he could be present for the council, he had gone to see Othcyr and managed, through whatever abilities he had, to coax the entire story from her lips. Having related this to the council, which consisted of himself, Graldor, the military leaders (Caldrion, Frealine, Halin, and Smosur), and the noble farmers (Melgras, Betlin, Dunev, and Gripler), they now had to debate what should be done with Caldrion's out-of-control and possibly insane daughter.

Graldor straightforwardly admitted that he had no real idea how to handle the situation. On the one hand, Othcyr had committed a terrible crime against her own kin that, were he to disseminate justice based solely on the act, would be punished by losing her own tongue, being incarcerated until she was undoubtedly sane again, and being kept away from weapons for the rest of her life. On the other hand, if her story were true, the victim was guilty of an unnecessary and vicious provocation that only exacerbated his natural sympathy for the daughter of his good friend. He thus decided to open the floor to discussion.

Caldrion, as he had before, pled that this was a matter of family discipline and that he would punish her severely but not do her permanent harm because this was a childish fight and a childish mistake. Smosur protested this aggressively. "No father, no matter how fair, could discipline his child as well as the King would. Further, the savagery of her assault argues against this being a simple fight between children. Based solely on the injuries the poor man sustained, I would argue that this was the kind of torturous beating more typical of orcs than men. And I dispute the assertion that she is merely a child to be disciplined by her parents when her age, bearing, and actions all indicate that she is an adult and fully responsible for what she does. And why should we even believe all that she told Sirgo?"

Several heads around the table nodded, including that of Gripler, about whose background Caldrion knew little beyond the rumor that he was the bastard of Melgras. Sirgo stood to answer Smosur. "I can offer only that I saw no lie in her eyes when she spoke to me and that what she said makes sense given what Caldrion saw and the nature of Teorand's injuries. I for one wonder if her actions were driven by more than simple insanity, given that her attack demonstrated the same brutality that has, upon occasion, distinguished her father in battle."

The discussion continued along the same lines, during the process of which Caldrion admitted that his plan was to deprive her of weapons and horse training for some time and instead restrict her to helping look after her cousin and doing the domestic duties that she abhorred.

Despite the opposition of Smosur and Gripler, coupled with the ambivalence of Melgras, Graldor, and Dunev (who as Caldrion's squire had learned that his discipline was not particularly harsh), the general consensus seemed to be moving toward releasing Othcyr to Caldrion's custody. Betlin, with an apologetic shrug to Caldrion, had pointed out that, had Caldrion been supervising the practice as closely as Neblis used to, the fight would certainly not have reached the point it did and thus he should bear at least some of the responsibility. With that admonition, Graldor agreed to leave the issue of Othcyr in Caldrion's hands and moved on to the original question of what Aratur should undertake over the summer.

Graldor, as was the case historically, strongly favored organizing another orc campaign. He had an empire to build, after all, and he was itching to slake the lust of his sword in orc blood once more. As might have been expected, however, his enthusiasm was not widely shared. As Frealine once again pointed out, there were no known targets against which Aratur could campaign. Halin also wanted more time in which his horse archers could practice and needed to develop and test tactics that would maximize their effectiveness in battle. Though Caldrion definitely did not wish to go back to battle any time soon, fearing that he might again lose control of himself or, worse, might not live to return to his family, he was not going to say anything out of gratitude to Graldor for sparing his daughter. Only Smosur was enthusiastic about the possibility, and even he conceded that the lack of a known orc encampment posed a problem.

The farmers, as might be expected, wanted to steal some manpower from the army to broaden their experiment in irrigation. It had taken a good deal of trial and error, but they had finally found a way to dig trenches such that some of the stream flowed into the fields and significantly increased the water available to the crops (at least if height was any indication). Having finally succeeded at that the previous year, they now intended to expand the effort.

At this point, Sirgo stood up and, to no one's surprise, proposed a third possibility that, upon consideration, was probably superior to either. "I am concerned about expanding the irrigation that draws on that one stream, since we do not know if heavy irrigation now will adversely affect the flow of the river or the health of the soil. We are not the ones that the earth itself should fear, given that there is One who already shows no mercy to the land itself. Neither should we go in search of more orcs, for our wanderings may attract his unwanted attention.

"Rather, we should focus on defense, completing another fort to protect Aratur from the east. I should have said something sooner, but now the winds of change are blowing and the events are set in motion. For whatever reason, Graldor is made an enemy of the Dark Lord, that personification of evil. Not a foe at the top of his list, I think, but one that he will come after again before too many more years pass, and we should be ready."

Interestingly enough, it was Graldor's face that showed the least surprise at this pronouncement. Others showed shock, fear, outrage, or disbelief. It was Smosur who finally cut through the chaos. "Assuming you are correct, which I am not saying you are, how would constructing Hillguard East make us any safer from the overwhelming hordes of orcs that a Dark Lord would presumably have at his disposal?"

Sirgo's response was fairly nonchalant given the skeptical belligerence of Smosur's question. "As I said, I think Graldor is a fairly low priority for him. We should not underestimate the threat, but neither should we assume that it is so great that we could not resist it."

Halin looked thoughtful. "And is it safe to assume that you have already picked a location? Whether for defensive purposes or not, another town would give us more room to spread out. If we do not do that this summer, we will have to spend much of the winter constructing new housing in one of the towns, neither of which have much space left within the walls.

Sirgo nodded. "The new location is situated on a ridge where…"

Graldor interrupted. "I fail to see why this is an important enough reason to delay our operations. We must deal with the orcs." He turned suddenly toward Caldrion, urgency in his voice that seemed ill-suited to a planning meeting. "Was not your wife's family eradicated by those monsters? Does she not have a fairly good idea of where they might be?" Startled by the forcefulness of the interrogation, and knowing that Graldor already knew of Catrilas' rather vague assumption about the base of the orc marauders, Caldrion only nodded.

"While they remain at large, they are a threat to my kingdom, indeed, to the whole of Middle-earth." Graldor punctuated his statement by reaching out with his hand, in a gesture of seizure. "We must annihilate them, and take what is theirs for our own. We should not delay any longer, for if we do the problem may grow out of our control." He stopped, staring straight ahead, his hand upraised, the surprisingly thin fingers making it seem like the claw of a bird, and the entire room was left sitting in stunned silence.

Frealine, thankfully, broke the moment. "Forgive me for saying so, my King, but might I suggest that you have one of your… girlfriends trim your fingernails?" Some had more success stifling their laughter than others. Graldor glared at Frealine with a look that might have killed a younger man, but Frealine met it, forcing Graldor to blink. Before the King could say anything else, Sirgo spoke. "My King, I understand how eager you are to fight again, but if we leave to fight now we will probably come back to find all our hard work has been reduced to ashes and rubble. I do not know how soon, but our Foe is coming and will strike us before the weather turns cooler. We would do best to make sure that we are here to meet them."

Sirgo's pronouncement sobered everyone and even Graldor agreed that the construction effort should begin. At Caldrion's suggestion, they decided to call it Fort Neblis, in honor of the first great leader of the Grand Army to fall in battle.

-

(This next episode is one of those that leads me to question the veracity of this tale. It seems to be a composite of two much-celebrated events to which my father was a witness. While it is not beyond the realm of possibility that such an event may have happened, it is also possible that my father or, more likely, given his well known honesty, his source for the story (about whom, regrettably, I never thought to ask) chose to replace a more mundane version of events or add an entirely new incident. The problem with writing this off as a later addition borrowing from more recent happenings is that the manner in which the event occurs, the manner which is of questionable originality, is as critical to the subsequent progression of the story as the event itself.)

A few weeks later, Sirgo was leading Graldor, Caldrion, Betlin, and Rickens and Aeschen, two of the best fighters among the younger generation and officially members of Graldor's personal guard, along one of the deer tracks leading into the White Mountains. Officially, Graldor was touring the territory surrounding his towns to obtain a better feel for the land over which he nominally ruled and survey the natural resources at his disposal. Unofficially, Sirgo feared that if Graldor just sat in the palace doing nothing while Fort Neblis was erected, his boredom might lead him into another extended bout of depression as had happened after the first orc campaign.

Which reminded Caldrion of something he had never mentioned to anyone else. He knew that Graldor had been afflicted with obsession, not depression. An obsession with a certain ring that was still in the King's possession. A possession that led him to murderous transgression. A transgression that had left quite an impression.

Caldrion shook his head. This was getting silly, and he knew it was not a good sign when even his own thoughts were bored enough to produce such rhymes. As he ducked to avoid yet another low hanging branch, he wondered what had prompted him to suddenly remember that ring, and the power it had over people. Here he was, riding through a forest untouched by human incursion. Well, almost untouched. In addition to their presence, they had seen a few signs that solitary bipeds may have come through before, but nothing that indicated systematic or frequent intrusion. Based on what he had seen on the earlier trips, during which he had learned these tracks fairly well, Sirgo was fairly certain that there were a few primitive, disorganized hunting and gathering clans in the mountains, but nothing that should concern Aratur.

While trying to decide whether or not he should seek out Sirgo and relate the scene that had taken place in Graldor's bedchamber so many years ago, the prophet in question took the decision out of Caldrion's hands by dropping back next to him. "We are fairly close to where this track intersects a stream that flows into the river that eventually flows past Aratur. Among the nomads, it is rumored that there is a pass that goes south, beneath the mountains, which I believe to be located near the source of that river, though I have not yet had the opportunity to verify that guess. If Aratur should be attacked such that the way north is shut, this path from Aratur to that river might provide an alternative escape."

Caldrion nodded. Though Sirgo had seemed fairly confident when he first disclosed his concerns, he had been covertly laying contingency plans: making sure that there were enough horses that every adult would have one on which to escape (so only children would have to ride double), encouraging families to keep non-perishable rations in easily accessible locations, prepare packs of such rations, supplemented with blankets, knives, and other items necessary for survival, and place them in the stables of both towns, and scouting and showing Caldrion the most likely routes by which the people might flee should the towns fall.

Caldrion was about to change the subject when the path suddenly took a steep drop and, before he was aware of doing anything other than keeping his horse from slipping, all six horses were standing in the bed of a V-channeled stream, running only a few inches deep. It was wide enough for the six of them to ride abreast, but to either side of that width it rose steeply, back up into the woods. "As you might have surmised," Sirgo said, "this stream feeds the one that goes past Aratur and Hillguard. While it might have been easier to simply follow that from Aratur and then turn east up this tributary, the track on which I just led you would allow those from Aratur or Fort Neblis to bypass Hillguard and gain access to the ample hunting in the vicinity of this stream as well as the larger river it feeds. I have not explored that river too far beyond the point where this stream intersects it, but the easiest way to complete this particular excursion will be to follow this down to the river and then follow that valley back out of the mountains."

As they rode down, with Aeschen taking particular care to point out potential hiding places for hunters to Graldor, Caldrion spoke softly to Sirgo. "I don't know why I was reminded of this now, but I probably ought to mention that I think Graldor's unresponsiveness after executing Deol was attributable to the influence of the ring."

"How so?"

"I'm not certain, except that when I found him that morning before you came to announce the second orc campaign, he was sitting on a chair rocking back and forth while staring at and pawing the ring, and he did not come to his senses until I swatted it away from him and kept him from going after it."

"And this is the ring he was given by a lone elf passing through the year before my arrival?"

Caldrion nodded. Sirgo had heard about the ring before, but he had dismissed it as a thing of little consequence, though one that should not be used recklessly. Elves made much jewelry, including rings of a magical nature, and it would not be surprising if a traveling elf, whether a trader taking such goods to sale or otherwise, bore a collection of them. His assumption about Annatar was that he was, as his name ('Lord of Gifts') implied, a traveling jeweler taking his wares from the east to the west. He had probably discovered that whatever spells he put on that ring failed to make the bearer invisible to Numenoreans and so he decided to jettison it before reaching his major customers, unaware that said customers were either dead or had fled to safer refuges.

At the moment, however, his facial expression made it apparent that he was reconsidering that assumption. "I wonder… When we return, I should take some time to examine this ring more closely. It may have more powers than mere invisibility."

"Graldor says that he feels stronger when he's wearing it, and also suspects that he is…"

Sirgo cut him off. "Shhh…" Caldrion paused, but then he heard it too. From around the bend, the sound of many footsteps disturbing the pebbles of the streambed grew louder. Sirgo's command for silence had degenerated into a curse and a series of quiet observations that Caldrion barely caught. "Shhhit. Orcs. A few hundred of them. From the north. I was wrong." Caldrion looked at him. "Orcs in these mountains? Are they crazy or just lost? What could they be planning to attack?" "Us," Sirgo hissed.

Pulling his horse out in front of the others, which were growing nervous at the strange scents wafting toward them, Sirgo turned and pointed to one side. "Climb. There is a track that will lead you to the river and back out of the mountains." They paused, hesitating. "Do as I say! There are too many." Aeschen complied, with Graldor, Betlin, and Rickens following, as Caldrion brought up the rear, wondering how crazy the prophet must be to attempt to take on all these orcs at once, even with whatever magic he had at his disposal.

Once he was safely within the cover of the trees, Caldrion stopped and looked back. The orcs were now in view, and while most were focused on Sirgo, some were pointing in the Caldrion's general direction. Their flight had not gone unnoticed.

Sirgo sighed visibly, dismounted, and raised his arms in entreaty. He stood motionless for a few seconds and then suddenly buckled, dropping heavily to his knees. Once in that position, his arms dropped to touch the water flowing beneath him. As the orcs came closer, he knelt motionless and then buckled again. Caldrion was suddenly aware of him saying resignedly, "If that is what is required." Drawing his arms back over his head, he pitched forward, face down in the water.

Reflecting back on the situation, Caldrion was thoroughly surprised that he had not screamed at this point. Sirgo's skin shriveled and his body shrank, melting as though all the liquid in his body was joining the flow of the stream. In only a few seconds, the river took him.

From somewhere in front of him, he heard Rickens telling him to keep moving. Numb at seeing another trusted friend die before his eyes, and in such a strange fashion, he followed.

As his horse climbed, he heard the crescendo of rolling thunder behind him, which suddenly became the roar of a flash flood. He heard squeals as the water overwhelmed the orcs and lapped against the steep sides of the channel, but his grief was so overpowering that he could not exult at the orcs' destruction and could do little besides follow Rickens.

-

Caldrion lagged behind them the entire way to the river. He was having a terrible time trying to process what he had just witnessed. Sirgo, the strange prophet who had all the answers and was always ready with advice, had sacrificed himself to save Graldor. No, Caldrion corrected himself, to destroy the orcs. Being mounted, they probably could have outpaced the orcs, but Sirgo had elected not to even attempt that, and Caldrion was left wondering why.

Unlike when Neblis had died at the hands of orc archers, Sirgo had apparently made the decisions that led to his death for himself. Caldrion could not blame the orcs for Sirgo's death, and he could not take out his anger on the orcs either. He now understood the strong desire the King had expressed for spilling more orc blood, albeit for different reasons, but he was also aware of the waves of grief that threatened to consume him. _This_ was how he was supposed to feel after losing a close friend, quickly alternating between wanting to curl up and cry and wanting to scream and mutilate something.

Instead, he settled on maintaining his silence and taking advantage of the flat stretch of river valley to let his horse run ahead of the others. He guessed, based on the way that the river seemed to be getting louder, that they were probably fairly close to the place where they would have encountered it had their journey gone according to plan.

He paused. Underneath the sound of the river he thought he had heard… There it was again. A rough voice, no, voices, sounding frightened and angry. Using orcish expletives.

Biting back a few choice expletives of his own, Caldrion signaled for the others to stop, dismounted, and carefully proceeded forward. He counted about fifteen of them. Whether they had begun as a rear guard or an ambush waiting in case their targets should escape, they were now in a state of shock, pulling out the bodies deposited on the edge of the flood in the vain hope that there had been some survivors. Spread out and focused on the water as they were, dispatching them would not be terribly difficult, but it was necessary given that the orcs were between them and home.

Returning to the others, Caldrion suggested that Aeschen take his bow and start picking off the orcs beginning at the top and working his way downstream. Caldrion would accompany him so that a swordsman could address any orcs who got too close. The remaining three would lead the horses as close as possible and not attack until Aeschen was discovered.

Graldor vocally objected, protesting that it would be easier and better for him to simply slip on the ring and kill them all himself, but both Aeschen and Rickens backed up Caldrion, surmising that the King was probably the target of the attackers and as such should not be exposed any more than necessary. The former even had the audacity to suggest that he probably should not use the ring at all in this fight. "Are you mad, to deprive your best warrior of his weapon?" Graldor responded to that suggestion. Under his breath, Aeschen muttered "Who said _you_ are our best warrior?" Caldrion shook his head but did not speak. "Why shouldn't I use it? It's mine!" Graldor continued in a voice higher and raspier than normal. The other four looked at him strangely. "Is it not?"

Caldrion just shook his head. "Leave it off," he said resignedly, not really expecting to be obeyed. Graldor did not speak against him again, though, and Rickens added, with seemingly feigned cheerfulness, "Besides, what's the fun of killing an orc who doesn't even have the chance to fight back?" "Well, I enjoy it," Graldor answered petulantly, but made no move to follow Aeschen and Caldrion.

As the two of them moved, Caldrion refined his count. Twenty one orcs. He really was lousy at estimating crowds. At the far end, two of them stood together, looking at one body. Aeschen picked his spot and managed to drop both of them dead into the water. Nineteen. Ducking behind four different tree trunks, Aeschen hit four orcs standing individually. Fifteen. Caldrion was amazed, both by Aeschen's prowess with a bow and the fact that one archer had eradicated a quarter of the enemy force without even being noticed. He made a mental note to do a better job of encouraging his son Hrethere's skills with a bow. Thinking of his family, however, reminded him of the empty feeling within him and the reason he was fighting. Sirgo was gone, and his sacrifice would be in vain if they could not kill these orcs who stood between them and their homes. His hand clinched the hilt of his sword more tightly.

The next group was three orcs huddled together. As Aeschen took up position behind a high shrub, several things happened at once. One of the orcs turned casually upstream, pausing as he failed to see any of his colleagues. Aeschen shot him. The second orc turned to the third and observed that an orc body had just surfaced with an arrow protruding from its back. The third, noticing the fall of the first in his peripheral vision, correctly assumed that the original bearer of the arrow was actively targeting them and yelled "Attack!" Caldrion yelled "Attack!" and stepped forward to interpose his sword between the irate orcs and the exposed archer.

Aeschen calmly slew the observant orc, leaving the screaming one to advance alone, when two more stepped out of the bushes and advanced. Caldrion had not noticed them before, and would later thank the Valar for the screaming orc, given that the orcs were hidden roughly where Aeschen would have moved to target the next pair. The count remained at fifteen.

Aeschen whirled and took out one of the new orcs as Caldrion engaged the other. Its swing was too powerful for its own good, as Caldrion merely ducked and ran it through while its weapon was unable to defend it. To Caldrion's surprise, Aeschen had nocked another arrow. Caldrion expected him to hit one of the four or five orcs advancing toward them rather than the other three humans, since engaging the closest two without a shield was not something Caldrion was looking forward to, but Aeschen instead aimed at and hit an orc further away. It had been sneaking up behind Graldor, unnoticed by anyone else.

Both orcs were now almost on top of Caldrion, coming at opposite flanks with weapons held as though they intended to thrust into his side. Deciding to use one of the acrobatic moves he had taught himself during the years of peace, Caldrion dropped and rolled forward at the last second and, pulling his sword back toward him as he came to one knee, hamstrung one of the orcs. He need not have bothered. The orcs, not seeing each other and not expecting Caldrion's sudden move, had skewered each other. If it were not for the fact that Caldrion now had to turn and deal with two others, he would have laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of it. Ten.

Aeschen by now had his sword out and the two of them made short work of the other two orcs before hastening to help the others. Eight.

Or, more precisely, help Rickens. He stood in front of Betlin and Graldor, with an orc at his feet and another by Betlin. Six, arrayed in a semicircle around a bleeding Rickens. Betlin had never been much of a warrior, but his sword was bloodied and he was panting as though the orc lying beside him was his own work. Graldor, on the other hand, was as useless as one might have expected Betlin to be. Never one to drill, the King was fighting as though he had forgotten how to do so without the advantage of invisibility. His defenses were sluggish, often barely protecting himself, and his attacks consisted of wild, easily-blocked strokes aiming at orc necks. Now, even in a battle during which it was not being used, the ring was causing concern.

As Caldrion and Aeschen got close, Rickens and three orcs turned to see who was coming. It was all the opening a fourth orc needed. Caldrion screamed at him to get down, and Betlin just screamed, but Rickens was not fast enough to save his own head, not even living long enough to have the satisfaction of seeing his own sword thrust gut his killer. Betlin's mouth now hung open in wordless horror as the decapitated body collapsed and even Graldor's previously expressionless face looked startled. As though by reflex, the King lashed out and sent the orc opposite him sprawling. Four against four.

Or rather one on one four times. Even Betlin, whose lunch would obviously be changing its location as soon as the fight was over, managed to kill one. With all of them dead, Caldrion and Graldor just looked at each other as Betlin retched and Aeschen went to grab the horses. As they had no implement with which to dig, Caldrion started to move Rickens' body up on his horse, but Aeschen stopped him. "No one else should have to see that. We'll give him to the river."

-

As the four of them rode, Caldrion's mourning redoubled. Both Sirgo and Rickens were gone, and for what purpose? What could he tell Rickens' wife and little son that would make his loss seem worthwhile? A whole bunch of orcs were dead, orcs none of them had wanted to confront. Four men were still alive who would not have been otherwise. They now knew of another possible escape route should their homes fall and a potential hunting ground while their homes stood.

Why? Caldrion asked himself again and again. Why did they die? And through his weariness, Caldrion could only generate one answer: the Dark Lord. It all came back to him. Caldrion shuddered. Could Aratur resist him? Was there any hope?

And somewhere in the recesses of his mind, a cold voice answered "No."


	13. Not All Who Wander are Lost

Wings of the Storm, Chapter XIII- Not All Who Wander are Lost

(This installment contains two incidents of note. The first is a vision that seems to foreshadow events that actually happened but which contains some subtle differences from the official version in the _Red Book of Westmarch_. Whether these differences are original or were introduced by my father or his source, following an alternative version of the actual events, is unknown. The second is a depiction of the economic structure of a human town in the Second Age, for which I can find no source that collaborates or repudiates it, leaving me to wonder, yet again, if this tale offers true historical insight into a largely undocumented era or is merely a clever and entertaining invention.)

Curiously, Caldrion did not find it odd to hear a cock crowing at the setting sun. Nor did he start when he heard the horns blowing in answer, great horns echoing in the snow-capped mountains. When the King spoke, Caldrion did not even consciously note that this man was older and wiser. "Oaths ye have taken; oaths now fulfill, to Lord and land and league of friendship!"

A cheer rose behind Caldrion, and he whirled to see countless horsemen arrayed in battle formation, their swords drawn and their faces determined. The pride emanating from the King was so powerful that Caldrion felt it, and soared, and could not help but smile as the thought reached him: _My people_.

And with singing they advanced, the thunder of their hooves washing over the plains like a sheet of rain. Before them rode the King, outpacing the wind and bearing a countenance as fell as a storm. Behind, his green banner flapped, the white horse depicted thereon dancing as though winged. Caldrion was caught up in the charge and soon felt nothing but the triumph of the riders as they delivered rightful vengeance.

When the whirlwind deposited him, he was greeted by a scene that filled him with tears and shivers, fear and awe. The white horse was no longer flying but instead lay dead atop the King. A monster, unnatural, neither avian nor reptilian, a stinking grey mass of evil, was perched before the horse. Upon it sat a shape of black armor and robes, a crown atop what would have been its head, save that only two dangerous points of red light occupied the gap. Another voice, more familiar to Caldrion, spoke in his head: _the black ghost, whose brother you know and whose master you have met_.

Between the black king and the white stood a woman, her golden hair and white robes flowing gently in the wind, a vision of some angelic being. Out of the unnaturally black and red sky, a single shaft of light illuminated her, and with a gasp he realized that she looked like a slightly older version of Othcyr. She addressed the villain in a voice clear and deadly, speaking the words of one who goes seeking death, having no hope. "Begone; leave the dead in peace."

From beneath the malevolent orbs, a voice answered, toneless but as deadly as the woman's: "Begone; leave the dead as prey, or you will wish yourself one of them."

The clear pitch of drawn steel rang in answer, and she held her sword high before her in defiance. "Do what you will. I shall hinder it."

Caldrion's vision swam and the scene rotated. Othcyr stood before him, sword poised to strike with what remained of her strength. A sharp pain grew behind his knee, and the two red spots immediately before his eyes became many circling in the distance. Her sword closed the distance to his face, and his vision was filled with a shower of sparks.

"Shit, Dad, you had us all scared," Othcyr said, withdrawing her hand, which would have slapped him again had he not come out of his daydream, and instead pulling him into a hug. Looking over her shoulder, he saw many people, most from Hillguard but some who, like her, had ridden up from Aratur, some of them holding torches against the starless night. Turning around as he pulled away from her, he saw Graldor, Betlin, and Aeschen dismounting, all looking weary but at least alive.

At that point he realized that he was no longer mounted and that the back of his knee was indeed bruising. Othcyr saw him glance at it and apologized. "I was not as gentle as I should have been pulling you off, but I was more concerned about confirming that you were still among the living.

"So what happened? We saw the various orc artifacts and body parts washing up when the river rose suddenly, and it made all of us worry about you. Where are Sirgo and the other guard?"

Through his still extreme weariness and disorientation, he managed an incohesive but understandable response. "Orcs. A large band of them. Sirgo called the flood, washed them away, melted. Rickens was killed as we fought the rear guard. They came from the… Where is your mother? I need to speak with her now."

Othcyr grabbed him before he could remount his horse. "Not tonight, Dad. You need to rest. We'll find you a bed here."

She took his arm and led him back to Hillguard. The crowd parted around them, the villagers eyeing him warily as they kept their distance. He was not bothered by it, having been subjected to similar glances in the days after the battle in which Neblis had been killed, until he realized that the suspicious eyes were following his daughter and not him. Had he been fully conscious, he would have berated them for staring at his daughter like she was some monster to fear, but as it was he could hardly keep his eyes open.

From somewhere behind him, he heard two wise voices speaking with accents that he had never before heard. "Why do they fight?" "Not all of the downfallen were led astray across the waters. They fight to again claim that history and join with those who are today redeemed." "A light from the shadows shall spring…"

-

Caldrion spent the next several days in bed, his waking hours blurring into his sleep, as his fever rose to an alarming height and then broke suddenly. Finally, on the fourth day after his return to Hillguard, he opened his eyes to find himself looking at his own bedroom. He did not remember being brought home, and everything that had happened since they had killed the last of the orcs was a hazy, indistinct mass.

Correctly surmising that some time had passed since then, he got up from the bed, put on clean garments, and walked out of the house, pleasantly surprised at how good he felt despite the long rest.

With no real plan in mind, he just began wandering along the beaten paths of Aratur, watching the daily life of the town ebb and flow around him. He first passed other residences like his own: rectangular, one-storey houses with a common room or two and bedrooms. In the middle of the afternoon, most were inhabited, if at all, only by women doing household tasks or, if they were really ambitious, trying to teach squirming children who wanted nothing more than to run out and play. He nodded to Memara, an original member of Aratur, widely recognized as the best cook in the town and the woman Graldor still turned to for the organization and oversight of his feasts, as he walked by her. He also acknowledged Fremus' greeting with a nod, though he did not slow his step for fear that he would be trapped into conversation with the loquacious old man, whose deteriorating health would probably kill him before the harvest but who, through either temperament or stupidity, remained blissfully unaware of his own impending end.

Dodging his way through a group of children playing tag, he entered the crafters' district, such as it was, where the smithy and leather workshop stood among the homes of men who served Aratur with more specialized skills than fighting or farming. Passing the abode of Rievlyn, who did most of the cobbling, Caldrion was reminded that Eodryn's boots had looked like they needed to be put back together. That was one of the things that he had taken a long time to adjust to after he had joined Graldor in his youth. Unlike in Vinyalonde, where his original foster-father Solmir had declared that the currency was quite primitive compared to that on Numenor itself, Aratur had no currency at all and very little bartering. The storehouses and armory were open and supplied everyone with food and weapons. Services were likewise simply provided to those who needed them; for Eodryn's boots, all Caldrion would need to do was give the boy some time off from weapons practice so he could go and wait while Rievlyn made them fit again. And for large projects, such as Catrilas' wedding dress (which had since served several other brides), the best sewers in town simply got together and made it. This economy over which Graldor nominally presided, though initially completely foreign to Caldrion, had proved surprisingly effective given the small size and isolation of his realm.

He was brought out of his thoughts by the sight of a Hillguard maid shaking her head sadly as she walked out of the hut where Walame, the healer, lived. Turning into the house, Caldrion was alarmed to find Teorand still there and abed, surrounded by his closest friends Pustel, Sceafles, and Thwine, a trio of thuggish and, in Caldrion's opinion, dense farmers who still harbored a slight grudge against Frealine, Caldrion, and Melgras, who had determined that they could best serve Aratur in the fields of peace instead of war.

Trying to be as unobtrusive as possible, Caldrion caught Walame's eye and she came over. "How's he progressing?" "Not well. At first I thought his lack of response was out of laziness or an attempt to garner sympathy, but after all this time I think it might be genuine, that he was so traumatized that he can no longer respond to exterior promptings. On top of that, I'm afraid that the little cut on his stomach has become infected. With a normal patient who had the will to live, it could probably be overcome, but with him… I just do not know. It might be better if he were surrounded by women who love him instead of these guys. All they keep doing is assuring him that, if he dies, they will avenge him. But the Hillguard girls, when they come, do little more than look at him with pity in their eyes, Catrilas was insulted by Thwine and hasn't returned since, and Eoscla does not want to take the time to stay with him."

Caldrion nodded absently. Even though the patient had not visibly reacted to his entrance, Caldrion could almost feel the resentment radiating from Teorand and decided that the best thing to do at the moment was withdraw.

Emerging back into the sunlight, he heard far more familiar whoops and shrieks going up the lane. Eodryn and a couple of his friends, armed with the wooden practice swords that everyone who was not a member of the Army had been using since the fight between Othcyr and Teorand, were chasing Hrethere and Eadgla. Caldrion opened his mouth to yell at the boys for playing wargames within the walls of the town but then decided just to follow, curious as to what was actually happening. While it was not unusual for the boys to engage in such sport, Eadgla, both because of her gender and her age, was not a participant in such activities, making Caldrion wonder if this was an attempt to scare or annoy the little sister rather than simply play for the sake of playing.

By the time he got close to the children, Hrethere had made his first mistake; up to that point his knowledge of the town and the quick turns on which he had led his sister had kept the greater speed of the older boys at bay, but now they were cornered in an alley. As the three older boys turned and advanced, triumphant grins on their faces, Hrethere stepped in front of his sister, pretended to nock an arrow on the imaginary bow he was holding in his hand, and fired three rapid shots, each of the older boys dropping to the ground as they were 'hit.'

Looking up, the victorious archer saw his father standing at the mouth of the alley and ran to greet him, Eadgla following as fast as her legs could carry her. Caldrion answered his son's quick hug with one arm while scooping up his daughter in the other. Eodryn, having gotten to his feet, gave his father a smile but, being in the presence of his friends, made no other move to express his pleasure at Caldrion's recovery.

Caldrion addressed all three boys as sternly as he could manage amidst the happiness of again holding his daughter in his arms. "Now what do you think you are doing, chasing innocent little girls around Aratur?"

Resuming a fairly cool demeanor towards his father, Eodryn replied, "It was Hrethere's idea."

"It was, Dad. If orcs should come into Aratur, I need to be sure that I know the paths well enough to lead everyone to safety."

Disturbed that even his children were making such contingency plans, Caldrion tried to ask lightly, "And why do you think that should be your job?"

Hrethere shrugged. "It's just something I think I ought to know, like the archery. Just in case we should need it."

Trying not to think about it any further, Caldrion just ruffled Hrethere's hair, knowing that the boy would soon grow to resent such intimate contact as Eodryn had. Hrethere grinned at him and said "I'm glad you're back among the living."

Leading his children back home along the meandering route he had taken earlier, Caldrion again observed the women working, the children playing, the soldiers returning from the duties of the day, and he found his answer. _This _was what they were fighting for. _This_ was what Sirgo had died for: these happy, simple lives, without fear or pain, this freedom. "And I, too, will die to defend it," Caldrion thought.

-

"Repeat for the council what you told me this morning."

Caldrion sighed but could not disobey the King, in spite of the doubts about his theory that had arisen since that time. This was still the best explanation for the orcs that he could think of, and he needed to relate it to the council if he hoped to ascend to the position of trust and respect Sirgo had held.

To make the situation worse, though, Graldor, having not seen him die, refused to give Sirgo up for dead, meaning that no ceremony in his honor had been held, no memorial had been constructed, and no one had been appointed to assist Frealine in the day-to-day operation of Hillguard or provide executive oversight to the construction of Fort Neblis. But neither had Graldor hidden his pleasure that the contradictory old advisor was no longer around, thereby leaving him as the primary decision maker.

With his own illness added to his daughter's still suspicious attack on her cousin, Caldrion would lose all standing with the King and the council if he did not do something now to regain it. Since Sirgo had given him information that, in his delirium, he believed he had discerned the meaning of, he had thought it best to share with Graldor the day after he had awakened, leading to this meeting of the council.

"Before he told us to flee, Sirgo was muttering about the orcs and said that he was wrong and they came from the north. I suspect this means that he anticipated that the Dark Lord would send an expedition against us from the east, where hordes of orcs are said to still be intact. If the orcs indeed came from the north, they most likely lived in a settlement larger but otherwise similar to those we destroyed some time ago."

Smosur nodded. "So now, with the orcs dead, it might actually be advisable to mount an expedition north, if we had a better idea of where we could find the place they left from."

"But Caldrion's wife has some knowledge of the northern plains, I believe," Gripler added.

Before Caldrion could protest that Catrilas had, on more than one occasion, told this council that she only suspected the existence of a northern orc settlement and had no concrete information, Graldor ordered Betlin to fetch her.

Caldrion wondered once again what he was missing. If the orcs had indeed come from the north, then they had bypassed the area controlled by Aratur without being noticed, no small feat for such a large band. And, come to that, why such a large band? Those many orcs could probably have destroyed at least one, maybe both of the completed towns if they approached quickly enough to prevent the Army from assembling and engaging them on the plains, where the now entirely mounted force would have a significant advantage. Yet Sirgo had said that they came for "us," presumably Graldor. Why would such numbers go after one man, especially since their almost complete lack of tactical planning had allowed that one man to escape? And how had the orcs found Graldor in the mountains? How did they even know that Graldor would not be in Aratur when they arrived in the vicinity? Caldrion shuddered at the possibilities. A spy in Aratur could have told them that Graldor was on another mountain tour, but who had directed them to the specific stream or even told them to go south in the first place? The only conclusion he could draw was that the Dark Lord was not only something approaching omniscient but could also give orders to his servants from afar.

As that unpleasant possibility occurred to him, Betlin came back, leading a surprised and somewhat flustered Catrilas. Graldor gestured for her to sit and then, without preamble, asked her where the northern orc settlement was. Taking a breath to avoid being caught up in his hasty intensity, she answered. "As I have said before, my Lord, I do not know. I, or rather my family, only suspected that one might exist."

"And where did they suspect it existed?" Graldor asked, rising from his chair.

"On the south side of the river, west of where it turns south."

"And this information is based on?"

"Hunches more than anything. My father had guesses about where orcs might settle but he made a point of avoiding those locations rather than attempting to confirm his suspicions."

Graldor, despite having heard all of this before, was becoming visibly angry and was now pacing behind Catrilas. "If orcs were to settle along that stretch of river, where would they?"

Though apparently slightly frightened by the King's tone, Catrilas kept her voice calm. "I cannot say, though I cannot imagine they would settle in the bewitched forest that at one point grew on both sides of the river."

Frealine shook his head. "They would not live in the woods, but they would probably stay near them because of the available timber."

Graldor nodded. "Two days from now we go north to eradicate the town that was home to those sent to destroy us, and we will slaughter them all."

Caldrion started at that abrupt declaration, but Graldor swept out of the room before any could protest. Stunned by the sudden turn of events, Caldrion surveyed the faces seated around the table and saw that no one looked dismayed like he felt. Frealine, Halin, and the farmers all seemed to have calmly accepted the King's proclamation, and Smosur was making no effort to hide his pleasure. It mattered not that they were seeking an orc settlement whose existence they could not confirm and location they did not know. It mattered not that the chain of assumptions leading to this expedition was such that this unknown settlement quite possibly might not be the source of the orcs. It mattered not that Graldor was not even acknowledging Sirgo's death, nevermind declaring this a campaign to avenge him. It mattered not that the Kingdom was not directly threatened, that the women and children would sleep just as safely this night as they had the last. What mattered was that Aratur was going to war, and blood would be spilled.

-

The next day went by far too fast for Caldrion's liking, and before he was really aware of it he was dressing to ride north, the whole time wishing that he could just be preparing for another day of training the children in weapons they would hopefully never need to use.

Saying goodbye to the children was especially rough. Even Eadgla was too old for him to pretend that this was just another patrol; she was keenly aware that the preparations were more widespread and the farewells more heartfelt than those preceding a few days of routine riding around the plains. Frightened by the possibility that her father was not coming back, Eadgla held onto him as long as she could.

Hrethere tried to keep things light, insisting that Caldrion provide a detailed report of how the archers fought when, not if, he came back, but the boy's eyes betrayed his concern as well. Eodryn, at least, did not deny his father a hug and promised to practice hard with the sword while Caldrion was gone. Though it was left unspoken, however, Caldrion understood that his son was also saying that he was prepared to defend his family if Aratur were threatened or Caldrion did not return. Othcyr did not even attempt to speak, but clung to her father briefly before turning away with tears in her eyes.

Catrilas was the hardest. He had not gone off to war since marrying the woman he was still in love with, whose life he valued more than his own. For the first time since meeting her, he would wield his sword for the sake of attacking rather than in self-defense. And, despite her assurances that there was no guarantee that they would even find the orc settlement, Caldrion knew in his gut that there would be fighting. So they clutched each other as tightly as possible, each once again pouring all his or her love into the other. "Come back to me" was all she said. "I shall" was all he answered. With one last glance at his family, he turned around and walked outside, willing his face to assume the anticipatory expression that the men would expect of him.

On his way to the stables, he paused beside Walame's hut. She had probably gotten very little sleep overnight, instead preparing more doses of ointments and salves for the soldiers. She was still somewhat angry that she was being denied the chance to ride as the healer for the expedition simply because she was woman. Graldor had instead decided that all the soldiers, who were taught the basics of cleaning and binding a wound as part of their training, would be provisioned with healing balms and clean rags so they could address each other's injuries.

Stepping inside, Caldrion saw Teorand lying unconscious in what was probably a feverish sleep. Kneeling by the bed, he gripped his nephew's hand and told him to get better and come back to the family that did indeed love him. As he got up, a tired-looking Walame came in, shaking her head. "Getting food into him is a struggle now. Unless something dramatically changes, he probably has only a few more days. And once he goes, I don't envy Othcyr. She's going to have to be really careful, especially around those farmer friends of his. You might want to tell her to carry a knife around for awhile."

Caldrion started. Much as he disliked going into danger with a family left behind, at least he had the illusion that they were safe and would be there when he returned. If those thugs might go after his daughter to avenge their friend, then he could no longer hold onto that illusion. But neither could he go back and warn his daughter, knowing that, as difficult as it was to part with his family believing they would be safe, it would be impossible to again say goodbye if he feared for their lives.

Walame must have read the concern on his face, because she kindly told him that she would caution Othcyr. Thanking the healer and with one last glance at his nephew, Caldrion left the building and continued on his way.

As he led his horse to the gate, he saw Aelia, Rickens' wife, standing with his son in her arms. Caldrion had to hold back a sob. He had not been particularly close to her, but the sadness radiating from her black-draped form filled him and only fueled his fear that his beloved Catrilas would soon stand so arrayed. And then he felt gratitude that he had been given even a few more days with his family. Walking past her, barely able to meet her eyes, he said "I'm sorry." She barely moved her head in acknowledgement.

Caldrion once again found himself wishing that the King had consulted with his friend as he once had, instead of so busying himself with preparations that Caldrion did not have the chance for a private word. He wanted to ask Graldor if eradicating this distant threat would be worth making far more women like Aelia, left alone with her grief and young child.

Outside the gate, the King was mounted and waiting for all the men to assemble so he could lead them north. Eoscla was talking to him, but he did not seem to care about whatever she was saying, staring as he was at the distant mountains, and she was looking petulant and slightly distraught. Finally she concluded that he was not going to listen to her and, turning away with a huff, walked back to Sceofsen. Roughly a contemporary of Teorand, he was the youngest of the designated crafters, a good friend of Eoscla's, and, if Caldrion's memory served, a younger brother of Rickens and also Aeschen's best friend despite being a couple years older than the soldier. The two exchanged a few quiet words, with Eoscla looking slightly afraid and Sceofsen seeming to reassure her, before he embraced her in what seemed to be (though it might have been wishful thinking on Caldrion's part) a platonic embrace.

Wondering what that was about, Caldrion began to lead his horse in their direction but the beginning of Graldor's speech stopped him. "My men! Today we set out on a noble quest: to eradicate the dwellings of those that tried to destroy us. Today we go forth to spill the guts of those who oppose our supremacy of these plains." Caldrion, unable to cheer with the others at these vaguely disturbing statements, instead noticed that the King's mouth seemed to be flowing with saliva, slurring his speech slightly. "They killed a good soldier," he said with a gesture toward Aelia, standing in back of the women and other civilians gathered to see the Army leave, "and they've stolen our prophet, and we wants their blood! You are the Riders of Aratur! No living beings will hinder us; neither man, nor orc, nor elf, nor," he added with a glance at Caldrion, who noticed that none of the King's regular girlfriends were here to watch him leave, "woman can keep us from achieving our goal. We ride to war!"

"To war!" The men answered.

"To war!"

"To war!"

"To war!" Graldor turned and began riding. With one last roar, the Army, Caldrion included, began to follow.

"To war!"

-

Author's Notes: The usual disclaimers apply. My apologies for taking so long to update; school just doesn't get any easier, does it? Regarding the chapter itself, Caldrion's visions are deliberately disjointed and non-chronological with respect to the book. The economic views presented in this chapter are not my own. I am certainly not a communist, but, while trying to write a glimpse into the daily life of Aratur, I realized how little a currency-based or even barter economy would make sense given that most of the people were either soldiers or farmers in a small, isolated environment. Hence my guess that Aratur, and probably many settlements of men not part of a larger realm, would operate almost as communes with respect to labor compensation.

**Dragon-of-the-north**: Your compliments have, once again, left me speechless. I'm glad you like the jeweler explanation; in reality, that was me realizing that there was a plothole (namely Sirgo having not applied his wisdom to the question of Graldor's ring) and needing to quickly fill it.

**Lady LeBeau**: Wow. Can I quote you on the dust jacket? :-) For what it's worth, my trick with the names is to combine elements from Old English names until I find something I like the sound of.


	14. Darkness Visible

As usual, the world is Tolkien's and the OCs are mine, excepting the one-eyed elf, better known as Alagaith, who belongs to **Dragon-of-the-north** and whose stories featuring him are highly recommended.  
**Dragon-of-the-north**: Many thanks for your kind comments. One of the things I'm trying to do is leave a lot to the reader, from subtle bits of foreshadowing to matters of interpretation, and you've made an interesting, and true, albeit unpremeditated, analysis of Caldrion's vision.

Wings of the Storm, Chapter XIV- Darkness Visible

(This section bears yet more evidence that this tale was heavily changed between when it originated and when I heard it. If one compares the time elapsed in transit on this orc campaign to the first orc campaign in the story, the inconsistency is obvious. When one looks at a map of the territory in question, the problems with the traveling times here become even more apparent. The issue then is why the journey north and west is, within the story, so much longer than the journey east. There could be multiple authors, one of whom knew the area while the other did not, but that interpretation seemingly condemns this as a work of fiction, something I am unwilling to do without more conclusive evidence. I think it is more likely that the additional traveling time was inserted to either spread out dreams already recorded or create new ones to heighten the foreshadowing.)

For all the belligerence in the expedition's departure, Caldrion could only describe it as a boring venture. Upon reaching the river, Graldor had broken the Army into five groups. Frealine and Smosur were to take their commands downstream, the former scouting ahead with the latter trailing behind to look more closely for signs and also provide for a relay system should the orc settlement be found. Caldrion and Halin led commands taking the same approach upstream. Graldor remained camping with the bulk of the force, where they would await word from the scouting parties, which were ordered to turn back if they went three days without finding anything. Despite the uncertainty inherent in that command, however, Graldor was fully confident that his order would be fulfilled: "They must be found; they will be punished."

Caldrion's sense of foreboding, which had faded as they left Aratur behind them, returned with a vengeance after his party left the rest of the Army. To maximize their chances of finding orc tracks and minimize their chances of being ambushed, he had the men pair off and ride some distance apart. He went with Aeschen, which at least meant the day could include some pleasant conversation rather than just the tedium of constantly scanning the ground. His companion could confirm that Eoscla and Sceofsen were fairly close friends and added that, in his opinion, the two would make a good couple if they were willing to stop eyeing less attainable prizes.

That first night, after his men had reassembled to sleep in the same camp, Caldrion found himself dreaming of his nephew, or rather of his nephew's body, as Walame pulled the sheet over his pale face and his friends stood around, cracking their knuckles and flexing their fists ominously. When he awoke in the morning, the feeling that he was physically riding toward whatever doom it was that he felt was added to his sense of impending dread.

The second night he again dreamed, this time of his red-haired wife riding on the plains with several other riders around her, apparently the children. Somehow he knew that they were flying because he was dead.

When they set out the next morning, he knew that this was the day they would find something. It was midafternoon before that something made its appearance. Though the track had been somewhat muddied by rain, hundreds of marching orcs had left a mark on the land that would be difficult to erase. When everyone reassembled, they confirmed what Caldrion already knew, though how he could not say: the path was southbound and continued at least as far as any of his men had ranged. He selected his fastest riders to carry the news toward Graldor and announced to the rest that they would be following the track to the town, which they would watch until the rest of the Army arrived, probably in five days or so. When Wyslun challenged the prudence of alerting everyone before they had actually located the orcs to slaughter, Caldrion replied that he _knew_ the town would be at the end of the tracks, and no one dared to contradict that assertion.

The eight who were not sent back continued through the evening but settled, without lighting any fires, before they had seen any other signs of bipedal life. Unlike the two previous nights, Caldrion did not dream, unless one were to count the constant repetition of hoofbeats a dream. Not the happy hoofbeats of a horse running free on the plains, but the ominously controlled clips and clops of a horse whose rider is going slowly, as though searching for something.

It was not until after the sun had sunk below the mountains the next day that Caldrion's company found what they sought. Cresting a slight rise, their target was laid out before them: a fairly sizeable collection of buildings, with several columns of smoke throughout, surrounded by a circular fortification. The river flowed gracefully next to it and behind, stretching to the mountains, was a dark mass of forest. Knowing that his message would likely reach Graldor by the next morning, so they would have at least two full days to scout and lie low before the rest of the force arrived, Caldrion decided they should settle in for the night rather than trying to look around in the dark. That night, he dreamed of the Dark Lord as seen after Neblis death, a foggy figure surveying all from his window. This time, though, Caldrion saw that the face was contorted with impatient annoyance and perceived figures scurrying through the shadows at the periphery of the vision in response to orders conveyed by his gestures.

The next day was fairly uneventful. The town looked to be about the same size as Aratur was originally, though the absence of much movement between the buildings seemed to verify their belief that the town had been mostly depopulated to mount the expedition that ended in Sirgo's death. There was too much flat land around the town, including fields planted with grain, for the scouting party to get very close. Other than what looked to be a couple of human slaves walking among the fields, the only activity outside the town was the departure of a solitary orc heading toward the woods. Interestingly, the orc did not leave by the main gate, thus providing Caldrion a subject of speculation besides what the rest of the men were busy discussing: the necessary features that an ideal enslaved female would have. Interestingly, Aeschen, who had abstained from such conversation the previous night, joined Caldrion but could provide only the information that the alternative exit had not been discerned from a distance, thus reducing its potential utility as an alternative attack route.

After all the others had fallen asleep, Caldrion was still awake, wondering why he had been dreaming so frequently but so vaguely of late. When he finally dozed, another vision, this one of an innumerable horde of orcs marching west across blasted lands, filled his unconscious mind.

Other than the orc returning via the main gate the next afternoon, the day was surprisingly similar to dream: dull but tense with the anticipation that something unpleasant would happen soon. Graldor would probably arrive the next afternoon or evening, but the open ground coupled with Caldrion's caution prevented any of them from conducting a close reconnaissance of the town.

That night, Caldrion saw a different incarnation of evil than those he had previously dreamed of. They were short men, at least physiologically, but all the good had been burned out of them. Their eyes glowed only with obsessive, maniacal hate. They were poorly clad, more in skins than sewn garments, and poorly armed, with clubs, spears, simple swords, and torches as their weapons. Prodded by some unseen evil, they raged and foamed, with shouts directed at a handful of horses and riders in flight, but were somehow held back. Caldrion was briefly puzzled, until the figure at the top of the path leading down the mountain was revealed. It was an angel, at least by the reckoning of those men further removed from the mythology of Numenor. Clad in flowing white, its very skin seemed to radiate light, bright as a star sailing across the winter sky. It was armed only with a sword, and though it struck down enough of them that its tunic was stained red, there were too many and it was overwhelmed and its light quenched. It had not failed, however, for the frustration was apparent on the faces of the evil men as they realized that their quarry was too far away to pursue. As he set about breaking his fast, Caldrion wondered who could be so important as to require that an angel sacrifice its life.

It was a surprisingly autumnal day; the sun shone brightly, the air felt clear, and a gentle breeze kept it cool. Caldrion hoped that this weather extended south to Aratur and that his children could go outside and play in it. Ironically, it was the manifestation of this tendency in those older than his children that proved to be their undoing.

Sometime after midday, one of the horses began to graze dangerously close to the crest of the ridge, above which it would be clearly visible to the town. Cynebald, one of the younger soldiers who, along with Wyslun, was on horse duty at the time, decided against quietly coaxing it back and instead, succumbing to the urge to run with the cool wind flowing through his hair, tried to herd it. Wyslun, in a fairly characteristic lapse of judgment, joined the chase. The horse, which was decidedly unamused by two men running at it from opposite directions, elected to move in a third direction, toward the town.

Caldrion heard Cynebald's shout of exultation in the chase and, as soon as he looked up, realized that it would be too late to save them. Neither man was aware of the danger they were in until a half-dozen figures came running out the main gate. They were mostly of medium height and did not appear to be especially muscular or heavily armed. Not orcs. They were… men, Caldrion concluded with a start. Men… and women. Caldrion dashed over toward his own horse and mounted, gesturing that the others, who had all done likewise upon noticing the commotion below, should wait until he had determined the intentions of these humans.

By the time Caldrion cleared the ridge, the pursuit was forgotten and the horse was grazing happily as the two groups stared at each, both tense but neither willing to make an aggressive move. Riding with his palms open before him to show that he was not bearing a weapon, he reached them, dismounted, and acknowledged those from the town with a nod and the greeting "Peace." "Who are you?" the fairly attractive woman standing at the front of them asked.

"We are men from Aratur, a kingdom on the southern part of these plains. If you do not harbor orcs, then you need not fear us or our King when he arrives. My name is Caldrion, and I am a friend and advisor of Graldor, our King." He offered his hand and the woman took it.

"I'm Osda, the leader of Rising Sun, and you need not fear the orcs. Almost all of them marched out a few weeks ago, and we killed the rest and took control shortly thereafter." She turned toward the town and gestured for the others to follow. Caldrion, after waving to the others, did so.

"How did you know they wouldn't come back?"

"In a dream I saw them swept away by a flood."

Caldrion paused in surprise. "I saw them swept away by a flood with my own eyes. We came north to kill the rest of them and free their slaves, but it appears that you have already done that." She nodded slightly but did not respond. Caldrion thought she might be remembering some experience from her enslavement so, trying to change the subject, he asked "Why do you call it Rising Sun?"

"The town represents a new day in our lives. The sunrise from here is spectacular." Caldrion acknowledged the truth of that statement before she added, as the corners of her mouth turned upwards, "And the orcish name was too obscene to keep."

As they approached the gate, Caldrion dropped back and ordered Cynebald and Wyslun to wait outside to meet Graldor when he came and inform him of the changed situation.

Upon entering the town, they were greeted by a crowd of young-to-middle-aged men and women, some of them armed and all looking relieved, suspicious, or some combination of the two. Caldrion's eye was drawn to two tall men standing in the back who were not men at all, but rather elves. He barely heard Osda offer him and his men whatever hospitality Rising Sun could provide as he walked through the crowd, drawn as always to the Firstborn.

Standing before them, he halted. Both looked as though they had traveled long and seen many hard times. One was pale, clothed in dirty garments of undeterminable origin, and sported an eye patch that marred his otherwise fair features. As for the other, even had he not looked vaguely familiar, how many elves without noses could there be?

The noseless elf looked surprised and somewhat apprehensive but he answered the man's bow of acknowledgement and asked "And what brings you this far north, Master… Caldrion?"

Grinning at the fact that the elf had remembered his name, he responded "Nay, sir, just Caldrion without the 'Master,' for I was married a few years after your departure, on St. Gwindor's Day." The noseless elf looked puzzled, but the one-eyed one began laughing uproariously. Looking curiously at his companion, the noseless elf answered "Please, call me Noseless, and this is One-Eye. One-Eye, this is Caldrion, who got me out that town with the crazy king I mentioned yesterday. I did not expect to ever meet him again, nevermind in this town at which I so recently arrived."

"Well, we came north planning to liberate the slaves left behind by a huge army of orcs that would have killed or captured Graldor had Sirgo, our prophet, not killed himself calling a flood that drowned them."

Noseless took in a sharp breath. "Is Graldor here?"

"No, but he will be before too long."

Noseless hissed again and turned to One-Eye. "You should be away before he arrives. As should I, at least until he leaves." One-Eye, presumably having heard about all of Noseless' experience in Aratur, nodded. "I'll go finish getting our supplies then."

As he walked off, Caldrion tried to reassure Noseless that the elves would be safe. "Graldor would not try anything again. He thinks you used magic to escape from Aratur last time." Caldrion snickered, but the elf did not seem to find it funny. He began leading Caldrion in the same direction that One-Eye had left in. "So who is he?" Caldrion asked, unsure if it would be safe to ask Noseless about himself, given that their only connection was that getaway years prior and, in truth, he knew next to nothing about Noseless either.

"A rogue, a traveling vagabond. No home except where he is, no possessions save what he can steal, no work but aid offered to those who might trust an outlaw. The same as I was, after you freed me." He turned and entered a hut, Caldrion following. It was bare, save for a blanket, a bow and arrows, a large tube that might have contained a scroll, a few knives, at least one of which was for woodcarving, and a couple other small items.

"How did he come here?"

"I was taking a stroll near the armory three nights ago when he came through a significant gap between two of the boards that comprise the fence surrounding the town. I jumped on him from behind the corner but, upon realizing he was an elf, decided to personally ask him for an explanation of who he was and what he was doing sneaking into Rising Sun instead of taking him to Osda. He admitted that he was a lone wanderer hoping to obtain supplies but afraid of the reception he might receive. We moved to a dark corner of the armory and talked through what remained of the night as well as much of the morning, he hoping to obtain more information about the town and the area, I simply enjoying my first chance to talk to an elf in years. No matter how much time I spend in the company of humans, I have never succeeded in entirely understanding them and they have never succeeded in understanding me. I suppose you men are just a different species, and one less inclined to good. But I digress. I finally told One-Eye that I would not turn him in and instead told him to go back the way he had come and enter openly by the gate the next day. If he had anything to trade for whatever supplies he needed, he could do so, and if not I would help him steal them, because I would have wanted the same done for me when I was journeying alone."

Caldrion was glad to know the answer to the riddle of the lone orc and the hidden exit, but also disturbed by the thought of Noseless being on his own. "You had to travel alone? What about the other elf? Could you not return to your family?"

"They're long dead" he said in a voice devoid of life. "I should have been too, but after the orcs killed my family and burned our little home in the woods, some of them recognized that there was still life in me and took me into ten years of captivity, where they battered off my already broken nose but refused to let me die, as the Valar know they should have." He looked up and met Caldrion's eyes. "But that is in the past. After you rescued us, not once but twice, Gimp took his horse and went to seek his family in the Havens. I took the horse and went west, hoping against hope that by some miracle I was not the only survivor of my family. I searched Enedwaith long and hard, but found none. And what the orcs are doing to the land… The forests are being felled methodically and they are battering the land itself, as though, in the absence of an enemy army, they can take out their hatred of all good on the rocks and the trees and the creatures that live therein. And the wild men, settled here and there praying that the orcs will not find them, are little better. Your king is not the only man with strange ideas regarding how men and elves should relate. Those that I took shelter with eventually tried to enslave me, so after many years hunting where I could and stealing where I could not, afraid to trust such uncivilized and seemingly evil men, I came back east, hoping I might be able to find a way north on this side of the Misty Mountains, but I came here, only a couple weeks past, and was accepted… Do you know how long I have gone without anything, a family, a friend, a location, that I could call home? Your king would do well to follow their ways: they think first on survival, accept all of us with nowhere else, and care little for conquest and spoils."

"That is not his destiny. The Valar have called him to make these plains an empire. And it is my task to keep him alive and help him to do so."

"At least you have a purpose. Am I doomed by some unknown transgression to wander forever without a family? Surely there was some reason I was allowed to live, but I do not see it."

Caldrion was unsure how to answer but the sound of horses and loud dialogue from outside saved him from having to do so. Graldor, apparently, had arrived. "I'll be right back," Caldrion stated before sweeping out of the room and heading back toward the gate.

When he got there, after taking several wrong turns and being undeniably lost at least once, the men had dismounted and were standing behind their leader. Though seemingly at ease, most were fingering their weapons as though ready for a fight at any moment. Across from them, various people of Rising Sun were also fingering their weapons, though they seemed far less optimistic about their chances should it come to a fight. Graldor and Osda stood between the two groups, talking loudly and animatedly, the former looking annoyed that he was not only facing a woman but one who was tall enough that he could not look down on her. Getting as close to them as he could without pushing through either group, he began to catch Graldor's words.

"… surrender."

"Why this hostility? We have done nothing to harm you and would have welcomed an alliance."

"When you surrender, you will be brought south with us so we can make sure you do nothing to bring further harm upon us."

"We have never done harm to you! We didn't even know you existed! And we never will harm you unless you give us reason."

"You already have, by sending your orc minions against us. You will surrender and be brought from this orc haven and will consider yourselves grateful for the mercy of Graldor."

"We will not leave our homes!"

"You will surrender!"

"We will ally!"

"Surrender, damn it!" Graldor said before grabbing Osda around the waist and kissing her lustfully on the lips. She struggled against his grasp and managed to shove him backwards. He slapped her with a force that dropped her to her knees, then turned to the soldiers arrayed behind him. "Kill them. All of them."

Some of the soldiers grinned wickedly and drew their weapons, but most gasped and looked disgusted. Caldrion was shocked. "My lord!" he cried.

Osda, her breath coming in spurts as though the slap had knocked the wind out of her, pleaded, "Mercy, my lord. I… I will submit to your will." Caldrion was shocked, realizing that the debate between the leaders had not simply been about political union but about personal, or at least physical, union as well. Graldor stared down on her prostrate form for a moment before turning to the soldiers again. "Change that. Fuck them, then kill them."

Caldrion began running toward the King, pushing people out of his way. "Graldor! What are you doing? These are innocents, slaves only recently liberated. How can we do such an evil as kill them?"

Graldor shook his head, looking almost sad. "If you knew what I do of the villains, you would not so readily defend them." He then addressed his friend more loudly. "How dare you question my authority? Men, obey me!" He turned around, slipped on the ring, and drew his sword. Behind him, the soldiers advanced, most looking as though this was a task that, although distasteful, must be done because the King ordered it. Opposite them, the villagers looked determined to at least go down fighting. Strangely, neither side let out a yell or any such pre-battle vocalization. The silence was oppressive.

Caldrion had a sudden urge to draw his sword and kill the man who ordered such an evil thing and take his ring… No, not take his ring, but end the evil that his master had so suddenly become. Or at least use his sword to defend these poor people and, perhaps, thereby persuade at least some of the Army not to slaughter those who were not guilty… But no, this was his King, and to protect him was his Valar-given purpose… Noseless!

Caldrion turned and began running in the opposite direction. He had to find Noseless and get him out. As he left the courtyard, he noted that perhaps a dozen men were guarding the gate. He would have to hope that they could still sneak out behind the armory.

Somehow managing to not get lost while navigating the largely unknown town at high speed, he came to what he was fairly certain was Noseless' hut, though the conspicuous absence of the elf resulted in a minute of self doubt during which he stood dumbly at the entrance to the hut wondering where he should search and knowing that his time was very limited. Fortunately, before he had decided in which direction to continue his search, One-Eye came around the corner, his expression concerned and confused, apparently by the noises from the vicinity of the gate, and his arms loaded up with various packages, the largest one appearing to be clothing. Because he was carrying them openly, Caldrion assumed that he must have traded for them rather than stolen them.

"One-Eye! You need to get out of here immediately. Graldor is attacking the town and the defenders will not be able to fight for long. Do you know where Noseless is?"

"Possibly at the armory where I first met him. This way."

Luckily for all involved, One-Eye not only knew the town better than Caldrion but also had the correct read on Noseless' tendencies. He was indeed in the armory, which, despite its name, housed no weapons, but only a few agricultural tools, one of which One-Eye grabbed. Caldrion would later assume that what few weapons they had been able to take from their orc captors were being kept by individuals, who were in turn actively fighting at that time. Noseless looked slightly bewildered as Caldrion grabbed him and all but threw him out the door.

"Get out of here! Graldor's having everybody killed, but I would not put it beyond him to again attempt to enslave you. You must leave by One-Eye's secret way if you hope to remain alive and free."

One-Eye needed no further prompting to move to the gap. Instead of passing through, however, he set down his parcels and, using the shovel he had taken, managed to knock off the two boards flanking the gap, significantly widening it so that he could quickly and easily get through with his supplies.

Behind him, however, Noseless was making no move to follow but was instead looking back toward the main gate, close to which a fire had broken out (or, more likely, been set), with a fell glint in his eyes as he fingered an arrow. "Maybe I do not want to live. Maybe the Valar kept me alive so that I might rid Middle-earth of this insane villain before joining my family."

Caldrion gasped with alarm but, instead of drawing his sword to block the elf, looked pleadingly at One-Eye. The other elf must have understood, because he came up behind Noseless, grabbed one of his arms as Caldrion grabbed the other, and the two of them dragged him outside the wall. Noseless did little to resist them and made no move to reenter Rising Sun, which might now be better called Setting Sun or Spreading Fire, based on the way more structures seemed to be going up in flames. One-Eye did reenter, but only to quickly retrieve his supplies, the obtaining of which had turned into quite an adventure.

"I cannot let you kill my King," Caldrion said, trying to calm Noseless while keeping calm himself. "I can let you go, though, and you must get across the river before you are seen."

"Where should I go? No elves can replace my family, men only wish me ill…"

One-Eye interrupted. "Come with us. Both of you. The others would welcome the additional company, even if the life we have to offer is not much better than this one."

"Others?" Caldrion asked.

"Just a few more outcasts like myself. We wander and get by however we can. This is not a life I would wish on anyone except those otherwise doomed to die or entrapped in the service of such a cruel and mad King." He turned to Noseless. "I cannot say if there is a reason for me to live either, except to be with my friends, but I can at least offer to you that purpose." Addressing Caldrion, he added "I hardly know you, except that you seem a decent person and you saved my life with that warning. Now let me save yours by leading you away from this spreading evil."

Behind them, the fires were expanding further, as were the screams of the victims and the roars of the perpetrators. Against this backdrop, Caldrion stood and answered One-Eye, his own decision already made. "No. The Valar appointed me to protect him, and I must do so. If any can turn him from this path of destruction to fulfill his empire, I can do so." He softened his tone. "And even if I could leave Graldor, my family remains in Aratur. I was afraid that I would die in battle with the orcs and be unable to return to them and, having avoided such a death, I have to go back."

Noseless, despite having admitted that losing his family had sapped his will to live, tried one more appeal. "Come with us."

"No. My place is here, for better or worse. Just go. And trust me that, contrary to what you see today, there is some good in man."

"Yes," Noseless replied. "Even if it runs only in your blood, there is some good."

Caldrion did not watch them go, but instead turned back. It now appeared that most of the buildings had caught and the flames and smoke were obscuring what should have been a gorgeous afternoon. After briefly contemplating the scene, as though to convince himself of the rightness of staying with Graldor, he strode back into Rising Sun.

As soon as he entered, he sped up and ran toward the gate. He passed bodies and soldiers, some of whom were dashing in and out of huts taking whatever they could find and others of whom were playing with their victims, as it were, before killing them. Not too far from the gates, he found Graldor, still wearing his ring and with a trail behind him that seemed to indicate that he was the one actively leading the soldiers in the raping and killing if not the plundering. Caldrion could neither stand to watch nor tear his eyes away as Graldor thrust his sword into some poor woman, laughing as he did it. Not the hearty laugh that Caldrion remembered, but a high-pitched laugh that approached being a shriek.

Unable to stand any more, he turned around and ran out the gates. None of the soldiers near them attempted to stop him, and once outside he found himself helping Halin, Aeschen, and several others, who had presumably refused to participate in the slaughter, in the fairly difficult task of keeping the horses under control in the presence of such a large fire. It fell to Halin, who had been riding with Graldor that afternoon, to fill in his old friend about how the slaughter had developed.

When the Army approached, Wyslun had greeted the King and told him that a woman had claimed to be the ruler of the ex-slaves who had ousted their orc masters before beginning a quiet conference with him, during which Caldrion's name could be heard several times amidst otherwise undistinguishable whispering. Graldor had then told the men to dismount and follow him into the city. It appeared to be populated by freed slaves, he said, but he could not be certain of their trustworthiness and would demand their surrender. If they did not do so, the army should be prepared to attack and kill them, which was quite obviously how events had played out. Halin also expressed serious concern that, between whatever Wyslun had said and Caldrion's challenge of the King's command, Caldrion had, at the very least, fallen even further out of favor and might, given Graldor's behavior that day, be in danger of not returning to Aratur alive.


	15. To the Edge

Disclaimers as per previous chapters.  
**Dragon-of-the-north**: I'm glad that Alagaith worked well. I'm glad you got all of that out of the chapter, because it was one of the thematic heavyweights, while this one, for better or worse, is largely just plot vehicle and setup for subsequent events.  
**Lady LeBeau**: If you thought his Pelennor Fields dream was weird… I'm quite glad, though, that hope and inevitability are clashing so heavily in your reaction to this as a reader. It means I've done my job properly.

Wings of the Storm, Chapter XV- To the Edge

Soldiers slowly trickled out of Rising Sun over the next hour or so, driven back not by the folk they had mercilessly slaughtered but by the fires they had spread. Some made a point of not fraternizing with those who had abstained, but others did so, trying to justify their actions while also seeking to put the day's events behind them and again convince themselves that Graldor was a good king and worth following. By the time the King himself had emerged and began leading everyone back to Aratur, the consensus was that Graldor should not be blamed for the inflammatory advice given him by Wyslun. This group adopted Halin as its ad hoc leader, and he, on their behalf, took the King aside as they followed the orc tracks south and recommended taking disciplinary action against Wyslun, though Graldor was noncommittal.

Caldrion himself made no attempt to approach Graldor yet. He needed to do so before they reached Aratur, but was hesitating because, though he could not tell his friend, he was coming to the conclusion that he and his family must leave Aratur for their safety and sanity. Despite what he had told the elves earlier, if he had to choose between his purpose and his family, he would take his family any day. The next question was how and when to leave Aratur, followed shortly by that of where they would go, but all of those could not be decided until he had consulted with his wife.

The massacre at Rising Sun, however, had not cleared Caldrion's mind of dreams. This one was particularly vivid and was not just close to home but in fact at home. He saw three large males walking into his house at night, all of them armed with knives but none of them actually wielding them, instead intending to use their strong fists to enforce their will. Teorand had been dead five days, and Othcyr had yet to leave her house so they could punish her. Finally, they decided to take a more active approach and come to her, intending to taint her as her father had tainted Teorand's aunt, thereby scarring him. As vengeance, it would be quite suitable and had the added benefit of being pleasurable for Pustel, Sceafles, and Thwine.

Caldrion watched in horror, unable to yell out a warning as the assailants arrayed themselves around Othcyr's bed. As the other two assumed positions to either side of the foot of the bed, Thwine clapped his hand over her mouth. That proved to be a mistake. Her eyes flashed open and she began flailing her limbs before they could be pinned down. She put her right hand in Thwine's face and dug her fingers into his eyes. He tried to pull away from her grip and she let him do so only after violently twisting his head to the side, painfully straining his neck.

Meanwhile, she had succeeded in kicking off the blanket and had delivered a fairly hard blow to Pustel's face. Sceafles was hesitating, which gave her time to prepare herself. He chose to lunge on her, which was also something of a mistake given that she had pulled her knife out from under her pillow while his remained in its sheath. She struck toward his groin, but he saw it coming and rolled away enough that the blow instead landed in his thigh, cutting quite deep. As he added his yells of pain to Othcyr's screams for help, Catrilas came running in and Caldrion thought he saw stirrings from the other children's beds.

Catrilas was unarmed, or at least did not have a weapon out. That was yet another significant mistake. Thwine, having already unsheathed his knife, turned and grabbed her, placing the knife at her neck as he held her from behind. Othcyr had now moved to a sitting position and was holding her knife to keep Pustel at bay while Sceafles, having been kicked off the bed, lay writhing in pain on the floor.

Thwine addressed Othcyr before she could hurt his companions any more. "Drop the knife, bitch, and stop resisting, or we'll take your mother too." Even in the almost entirely dark room, Catrilas paled visibly and Othcyr looked sickened and even more outraged. She could defend herself well enough, but to threaten her mother with that was absolutely evil. Caldrion could see the decision on his daughter's face; she would not even risk the possibility of Catrilas having to go through that again. He fervently hoped that one of his sons would be wise enough to find some armed men, even if they were only the few farmers charged with defending the gates, instead of trying to fight.

As Othcyr cast down her bloody knife on the bed, thereby surrendering to her assailants, a scream somewhere near Caldrion's ear brought him back to the present. Aeschen was yelling in his sleep, but Caldrion groggily managed to shake him awake before the entire camp stirred. When Caldrion asked him what was wrong, he stared at Caldrion for a bit before simply answering "Nightmare," to which Caldrion replied "Me too."

Deeply troubled by the dream but knowing that, true or not, he would be in no position to deal with it until they reached Aratur, Caldrion did his best to put it out of his mind as they continued their monotonous trip south, their spirits rather low after having defeated a foe that may not have needed defeating and returning with little to show for it. The Army was now pretty much broken into two factions: those who, feeling guilty about the massacre, blamed Wyslun and absolved the King, and those who insisted that the massacre was necessary. While they remained united behind the King, several scuffles had broken out that seemed to indicate deep division. Such division would require Graldor to affect formal resolution to prevent further violence, something that he showed no inclination to do. Meanwhile, the return of Frealine and Smosur with their commands only complicated matters; Frealine was genuinely appalled and made no attempt to hide his feelings, while Smosur quickly moved to defend his old friend Wyslun, thus exacerbating the already tense division as, having not been present, he did not let the facts stand in the way of his interpretation of events, which among other things made Graldor look weak and Caldrion seem a traitor.

At least Graldor showed the inclination to talk with Caldrion, approaching him one evening and addressing him bluntly. "Look, Caldrion, you are my friend and I value your advice, but you cannot question my decisions in front of the men like that." His expression became sterner and his tone changed from addressing an equal to addressing a subordinate. "A King must be able to give orders and know they will be properly and successfully carried out. If you fail me again, I will have to find a new commander."

Caldrion nodded, trying to keep his expression contrite. This was actually less than what he had feared, and the lack of immediate punishment plus his intention to not linger any longer in Aratur than he had to made him bold. "If I cannot ask you in front of the men, may I now ask you why?"

Graldor sighed. "You are too willing to believe the good of people. It is hard for me to blame you for that, but you cannot believe that someone is true just because she says she is. No ragtag group of slaves could have defeated the orcs; the two groups must have colluded to affect our downfall. This Osda, who might have been a good match for me were she not so treacherous, must have made a deal with the orcs, who surrendered that village in exchange for the opportunity to conquer my Kingdom. She probably hoped that the battle between us and the orcs would kill most of the warriors on both sides, allowing her to assume the control of the plains that is rightfully mine." He shook his head. "I should not have been so kind as to offer them mercy in the first place; they would have infiltrated Aratur and revolted against me." He paused. "Assuming, that is, that there were not orcs hiding in the town that would attack us once the humans had lulled us into a sense of complacency."

Graldor shrugged. "What else was I to do?" He then thrust a hand in his pocket and stalked off, like a child who knows that he has done wrong but also realizes that he cannot be punished. Caldrion just sighed, wondering what madness had overtaken his King; one cannot build an empire by slaughtering substantial numbers of potential subjects or yielding to logic as flimsy as that.

-

Despite the psychological weight of the massacre and the physical pain and weariness from riding so much, the Army did manage to raise a cheer when Aratur came into view, at which point those soldiers who lived in Hillguard turned aside to return to their homes and families.

Surprisingly and somewhat ominously, no farmers stood guard at the gates. Whatever else was going on in Graldor's mind, he had not lost his take-action mentality; as everyone dismounted, he divided the men with gestures, ordering some to proceed with him directly to the palace, some to see to the horses, and the rest to fan out through the town to determine what was afoot. Caldrion went with Graldor, as his own abode was on the route Graldor was taking to the palace and he was anxious to confirm the safety of his family. Everyone felt somewhat assured as they saw women and children tentatively emerging from the buildings they passed, but the concern in their faces indicated that something unpleasant was going on. Graldor, unsurprisingly, did not take the time to ask any of his people about whatever was happening but instead continued on. They suddenly heard the clear ring of swords clashing and, turning the corner, observed a disconcerting scene unfolding on the threshold of Caldrion's dwelling.

Several farmers, young and uncoordinated but also angry and armed, were arrayed in a semicircle around an older swordsman who was standing between them and the door and was struggling to defend himself and those behind him despite having more determination than skill. It was Betlin. In the doorway, Eodryn stood with his sword at the ready while Hrethere, Catrilas, and Othcyr, armed with knives or, in Hrethere's case, a bow, were positioned behind him. Betlin was yelling at them not to interfere even as he experienced significant difficulties holding his position and avoiding wounds.

Caldrion began running forward to help Betlin, but Graldor took the easier method of so doing. "In the name of the King, cease and desist!" For the most part, it had the desired effect: Caldrion stopped running, Betlin took a step back and relaxed slightly, and most of his assailants also stood down. One, however, did not and instead took the opportunity to thrust his sword deep into Betlin's side. As Betlin fell over, Caldrion recognized Gripler as his killer. As Catrilas screamed, Graldor ordered the men with him to "Seize them." Most of the farmers did not resist but Gripler and one other ran, each with several soldiers hot in pursuit.

Someone had already gone to find Walame, but Caldrion could tell as he kneeled by Betlin that his friend was a dead man. His face almost unrecognizable owing to the pain, but he took a couple of gasps before expiring. Caldrion was still in shock when his wife pulled him off the ground, drew him tightly to her, and then, after holding him a minute, led him into the house. There he embraced all his children but otherwise remained silent, trying to come to terms, both emotionally and intellectually, with what he had just witnessed.

It was only after a boy ran by, telling him that Gripler had been captured, that he realized that his family was probably in the best position to help him on both levels. When he looked up, he realized that only Othcyr, Eadgla, and Hrethere were with him, but his daughter seemed to read his mind and addressed both his questions before he could ask. "Mom and Eodryn went with Graldor to explain everything. Teorand died while you were gone, and some nights later those stupid friends of his tried to take revenge."

Caldrion started. "They tried to rape you? I was afraid that was more than a dream, especially when Aeschen's cry awoke me right as you dropped your knife. Did you survive… intact?"

Othcyr grinned lopsidedly and shook her head at her Dad's embarrassment. "I'm fine. It's not as though I would have let them do anything; I would have killed all three of them as soon as that ass Thwine let Mom go, but it turned out to be unnecessary. Before any of us could make another move, Eodryn had the point of his sword at Pustel's back and Hrethere had put an arrow through Thwine's shoulder, causing him to drop his knife and letting Mom wrench free." She shook her head with a laugh. "You would have loved the look on Mom's face; I think that Hrethere firing his bow inside the house appalled her even more than being threatened. Anyway, I disarmed the other two, but now we were left with the question of what to do with three men, two of them wounded, who wanted to kill us."

"So I ran and brought the guards from the gate, and they helped us take them to the cells," Hrethere added.

"We put Thwine in the cell with which I am familiar, just because I enjoy the irony. The next morning, of course, the real excitement began. Melgras had been letting the rule of law slide and generally seemed to favor just releasing the captives and pretending nothing had happened, as if that was possible. Unfortunately, more than a few of the farmers seemed to agree with him, though I think that is primarily because they liked our assailants more than us. We were seriously contemplating walking out then and there and heading to Hillguard, but then Betlin stood up. He had been quiet the entire time, and the supporters of Melgras were getting restless for him to just go ahead and release those bastards. But Betlin stood up, showing more courage than I thought him capable of, and asserted the sole right of the King to punish accused criminals, meaning that not only were Teorand's friends wrong in taking 'justice' into their own hands but the others were wrong in seeking their release before the King could judge them. It was perhaps the bravest act I have ever seen, even if more than a few men stood to support him. When Melgras said nothing against him, he ordered our attackers held, put armed farmers whom he trusted to heed his orders in charge of guarding both the prisoners and us, and then took the keys to the cells into his possession, warning everyone than an attack on him would be the same as an attack on the King."

She took a deep breath before continuing. "Despite Betlin's efforts, all of us were still really worried, just hoping that the Army would come back and set everything right before we were forced to flee for our lives. We knew that it was only a matter of time before the other farmers decided they could defy Betlin. He was here, ostensibly visiting but in reality providing us with a daytime guard when Gripler and a few of his friends came. He stood to defend us, telling all of us not to fight so that none could speak against us." Her voice, growing sadder, suddenly broke with a sob. "So he died for us."

Caldrion and Othcyr were still crying when Catrilas and Eodryn returned. Graldor, they reported, was in a mood to kill. "He would have tried all of the rebellious farmers tomorrow. He means to execute the lot of them, and he made that clear enough that more than a few people looked quite perturbed. Fremus convinced him that it was more important to hold the celebratory feast first, so the feast will be two days from now and the trials will commence after that. Speaking of the feast, what happened? None of the soldiers seemed thrilled as though you had won, but the Army certainly looks as though it did not take many casualties."

Caldrion would have been far happier not having to recall those events, but he did for his family's benefit. As their shock at Graldor's actions sunk in, Caldrion also floated his idea for leaving Aratur, and all of them seemed to think it a good one.

-

There were times that Caldrion wished he were just another soldier, and that evening was one of them. He really just wanted to spend time with his family, taking solace in their company as he tried to come to terms with what had recently happened and begin planning for how they would leave Aratur and what they would do once they did so. Unfortunately, Graldor's temper had again reared its ugly head at an inopportune moment and he had to go help the other Aratur-based members of the council address the situation.

Smosur, Melgras, and Halin were assembled in the latter's home. Their discussion ceased when Caldrion entered, and Smosur and Melgras looked at him suspiciously while Halin expressed pleasure that he had joined them and quickly related the latest crisis in Aratur. Apparently Graldor had left the palace shortly after Catrilas and Eodryn did to walk through the town and burn off his anger at the way his kingdom's tranquility had evaporated during his brief absence. Unfortunately, he had, of all the unfortunate coincidences, come across Sceofsen the artisan passionately kissing Caldrion's niece Eoscla. There were no outside witnesses to the confrontation, but Sceofsen had been run through on the spot and Eoscla's hysteria had only ceased when Walame gave her the strongest sleep-inducing drugs in her arsenal.

Halin, fortunately, had the foresight to take advantage of Fremus' knowledge; since the reduction of his 'official' tasks, he had taken a keen interest in the local gossip and was thus in a position to fill Halin in on the background. Apparently, Eoscla had finally consummated her longstanding crush on Graldor a few days before the campaign and was, for good reason, concerned what would happen if she had conceived. After Graldor had refused to even offer her the assurance that such a bastard would be acknowledged, she had asked her close friend Sceofsen to marry her if she should prove to be pregnant. That question seemingly awoke a longstanding attraction between the two and, based on their activities, they appeared to be leaning toward marriage even if Eoscla should prove to have survived her encounter with the King unburdened by child.

The murder of Sceofsen was already having repercussions. Aeschen, who counted Sceofsen as his best friend, was distraught and demanding justice from anyone who would listen, while not heeding the advice to hold his tongue before the King killed him too. This was only exacerbating the already extant grumblings by the farmers who supported Othcyr's attackers. Smosur, who was already irritated by the current of sentiment against Wyslun in the Army, openly questioned Graldor's sanity and fitness to rule, while Melgras, albeit in more temperate terms, expressed his doubt that true justice could be served in the near future.

-

It was obvious that the tensions in Aratur would overwhelm any festivity arising from the feast, especially given that there was not much to celebrate now that the story of the massacre had spread through the non-combatants as well. Caldrion, trying to fill Sirgo's role, had arranged for and led a quiet burial service for Sceofsen, which if nothing else provided Eoscla with a spot on which to mourn outside the walls of the city, where she would not disturb others with her wailing. It was at the feast, however, that the situation was made significantly worse. No one was surprised when Graldor announced that Pustel, Sceafles, Thwine, Gripler, and the other farmers involved in the violence against Othcyr and Betlin would be tried the next day. Everyone was surprised, however, when he ordered Wyslun and Melgras seized from their seats in the hall and imprisoned as traitors, the former for his role in instigating the massacre, the latter for failing to support the King's authority during Graldor's absence. They too would be tried on the morrow, leading to a wave of murmuring that coursed through the hall. This, Caldrion knew, could not be a good thing.

For the first time since rejoining his family, he did not sleep well. Something less than pleasant was afoot, and it was not long after finally getting out of bed in the morning that he found out what. The fact that the Aratur contingent of the Army was assembled in and around the closest thing Aratur had to a town square was alarming enough. The fact that less than two thirds of the men were there was even more alarming. It was again Halin who enlightened Caldrion on the situation: Graldor had been awakened by one of the servants banging on his door. A band of men was attacking the palace; their primary objective seemed to be those imprisoned in the cells, but the King himself might be taken if he lingered in bed. Graldor hastily dressed, grabbed his sword, and donned the ring before going forth, leaving the loyal servant behind even as the screams of other servants pierced the dawn.

Graldor had killed indiscriminately on his way out and, once he had come into the town proper, he set about rousing all the Army. The fact that Caldrion had been allowed to sleep must have been just an oversight on someone's part. After all, once Graldor saw that Caldrion had come, he began to lead the force toward the palace.

His attackers were arrayed outside of it, ready to meet him. It was the remainder of the Army, plus a significant number of farmers. At its head stood Smosur, with Wyslun and Gripler beside him and the other liberated prisoners further back. Among the soldiers Caldrion was appalled and frightened to see Aeschen, with whom he had been friendly.

Without any preamble, Graldor turned to the men behind him: "Kill the mutineers."

"Why listen to this villain?" Smosur's clear voice challenged the men, making them hesitate before he addressed the 'villain' directly. "You are no longer worthy to rule over Aratur and are henceforth deposed." He turned back to those standing behind the King. "Why should we follow the man who ordered the rape and slaughter of innocents…"

"Not that I minded the rape," came a voice from somewhere behind him.

"… and then tried to blame it on a trusted soldier who had done nothing wrong?" Smosur continued, ignoring the comment and the chuckles accompanying it. Caldrion scoffed at that. While Wyslun had not made the decision and did not deserve execution, he was certainly not blameless. "Furthermore," Smosur continued, "he has completely abandoned his duty to provide law and order. He has allowed the cold-blooded murder of one of his farmers to go entirely unpunished while killing another who had committed no crime. I will not be governed by a lying murderer, and none of you should be either!"

Based on the faces of the men, Smosur had not convinced them to turn traitor, but neither did they look enthusiastic about fighting for the King at the moment. Given more time to talk, Smosur might have carried the day, but Graldor gave him none. Putting on the ring, the King let out a blood-curdling scream. The mutineers paled visibly. He stepped forward, pierced Smosur before he could react, and then proceeded to Wyslun, Gripler, and Melgras. The will of Graldor seemed to pour forth from his invisible form, making his loyalists bolder and more focused while terrifying his foes. After a quick fight, Smosur's supporters broke and ran, with Graldor's hot in pursuit.

Simply reacting and not really thinking, Caldrion isolated a target and ran after him. Caldrion did not catch up with him until he cornered himself in an alley near the stables. Caldrion struck at him but he caught the stroke. Upon hearing the ring of clashing swords, Caldrion blinked as though coming out of a dream and realized that the soldier he had chased was Aeschen, who looked furious and ready to kill the man who was once his friend. "How could you fight with him, after what he did to Sceofsen? What had my friend done? Nothing!"

Caldrion set the tip of his sword on the ground. "I will not kill you. Get out of here. It is too late for me, but you can save yourself. Fly!"

Aeschen was shocked, but he too relaxed his sword. "What? Where can I go? I know no other home."

"It matters not. West, East, South… North! Take a horse and go north. That's what all the others are doing."

Aeschen looked puzzled but nodded. He went into the stables, came out quickly, and rode out the gates as Caldrion watched.

Turning back toward the rest of town, he saw more of the faithless traitors running in the direction of the gate and his fury against them returned. Without hesitation, Caldrion lifted his sword and moved to intercept and kill them.


	16. In the Hands of Gods

Author's Notes: Disclaimers as per previous chapters. The latter part of the chapter is drawn from my interpretation of information provided in chapters two and three of _Return of the King_, Book V and is, if anyone is interested, foreshadowed in Chapter V. There will be an Epilogue.

Wings of the Storm, Chapter XVI- In the Hands of Gods

Those who opposed Graldor had been slaughtered without mercy. They probably had not even asked for mercy, though Caldrion could not say with any certainty. The power of Graldor was waxing and had covered Aratur like a veil. In truth, Caldrion could not recall much of what he had done in the past few days. After all the followers of Smosur had paid the penalty for their treason, he and all the other people had returned to their normal daily lives but had gone about them listlessly, as though in a waking dream. The thought that he and Catrilas needed to make a final decision about leaving Aratur constantly gnawed at him but he could never remember to actually talk to her about it. The only really lucid conversation he could think of was with Othcyr, whom he had disabused of the notion that Aeschen was dead with the others by relating how he had allowed the soldier to leave. Otherwise he, and all of Aratur, had endured days or weeks of hazy quiet.

All of that changed one morning when a rider came in from the ongoing construction project that was Fort Neblis, bearing the news that a huge mass of orcs was coming toward Aratur. It had easily overwhelmed the workers, killing almost all of them, and would arrive at Aratur within an hour or two. As the whisper of panic spread through the town, the men arming themselves and the women frantically preparing to flee, Graldor summoned Caldrion to help him decide what to do.

Caldrion found the King in his bedchamber, his armor mostly on. He was standing motionless before his sword, as though hesitating whether or not to put it on. "Graldor! You must hurry!" He did not react. "We must hurry if we are to flee to Hillguard and assemble the Army to meet the orcs on the open plains where we will have the advantage. You must hurry and help the women and children escape."

Graldor turned to his friend, his expression blank and his voice flat. "The dark. The swirling dark. Neither stars nor moon to give it light. Eternal, endless night. And in it a fire, giving neither warmth nor light. And out of it a voice, as cold as the darkness, as penetrating as flame. 'Take up the sword. Become who you were born to be.'"

Apparently, Caldrion was not the only one having dreams. He wished he could discern the meaning of the King's dream. He could not understand how fighting one group of orcs with half his army would fulfill the purpose for which he was born. He wished Sirgo were still alive to tell them what it meant. He had no time for any of it. "What do we do?" he asked, prepared to simply follow the orders of his King.

Graldor picked up the sword. His face was calm, but his eyes were wild. They might have been fiery with madness, but they also seemed grey and completely lifeless. "We fight."

-

If every orc the Army of Aratur had ever fought were gathered on the same field, that force still might not equal the number of orcs arrayed against them this day. Worse, they marched in units that appeared organized, indicating a level of training and cooperation absent in the earlier groups. Aratur had no chance. Caldrion knew it and even Graldor seemed to suspect it. Time remained their enemy. Even if they had wanted to flee, Aratur was still far from evacuated.

So they had formulated a plan. It was bad enough that less than two thirds of the Army lived in Aratur rather than Hillguard, but close to half that number had been killed some days before. Caldrion was at the head of nearly fifty mounted soldiers, roughly half what remained of the Army proper. His job was to harass the orcs, slow their advance, break up their formation, and generally draw their attention away from the town. Because of the large number of noncombatants who had yet to leave, Graldor led the rest of the Army on foot, defending the crest of the ridge in front of the burial area outside of the gate. They were supplemented by other men, and at least a few women, able to bear arms once belonging to the rebels. It was a sign that Graldor was aware how dire Aratur's predicament was that he raised no objection when Walame the healer had gone in and taken armor and a sword.

Caldrion looked back toward the town. Hopefully his family had gotten everything packed up and was already heading toward Hillguard. No one had actually discussed what would happen once Aratur was emptied, but Caldrion hoped that Graldor would mount and withdraw, his own cavalry would follow, and once to Hillguard everyone would flee together, taking advantage of their additional speed to get away from the orcs. If he could find his family, they might just slip off and ride away together, maybe heading north like the elves.

A gruffly barked order drew his attention back towards the advancing orcs. As they moved over slight rises and falls, the gaps between enemy units were widening, and Caldrion identified an opening that he thought he could safely attack. He pointed this out to his men: "Ride behind them, striking as many as you can. Do not linger long; ride through and regroup on the other side before the next set of orcs can trap us between them."

Having issued orders, Caldrion drew his sword, kicked his horse, and charged, trusting that the men would follow. Whether they actually would was beyond his control. The outcome of this battle was something over which he had no power. Indeed, he realized, none of the events of his life had fallen within his ability to influence. He was being swept along as part of something greater than himself, and he could only hope that the Powers directing that something intended good rather than ill.

He turned his head away from the orcs even as he approached them. How easy it would be to jerk the reins in another direction and put it all behind him. His actions had never truly been his own, but had always been leading toward something. What would it feel like to be leading and not led, to find out who he actually was, and not what these Powers had made him? As he drew up on the first orcs, he was very tempted to go find out when he decided that he had it backwards. Whether or not the Powers had made him thus, this was what he actually was, and to run away from it would be untrue to himself.

Caldrion wondered what it was that had led him to philosophically contemplate leaving his family as he cantered behind the orcs. Some did not react to his presence. These he stabbed or slashed as was most convenient given the position of his sword at the given moment. Some stepped forward to get out of his way. These he ignored. Others turned and tried to engage him. With these he attempted to avoid being harmed while seeking, if possible, to wound them as well. He came through the gauntlet unscathed and saw that his men had, for the most part, done likewise. The damage they had done to that one group was not insignificant, but as he surveyed the others moving around him, the impossibility of their task again weighed down on him. Even if they were to eradicate this unit, there were eight or ten more of similar size.

He wheeled his horse back around. There was time for at least one more pass before this first group was close enough to begin engaging Graldor. This time he was more aggressive, positioning his horse to actually run over some of the orcs and putting more effort into landing blows. He was rewarded with more casualties on both sides. The riders reassembled and took a breather as Caldrion took stock of the situation. The orcs had reached Graldor's line, but Graldor had donned his ring and they were holding their position admirably. Granted, Caldrion was not worried about the first group as much as the subsequent ones, who would meet a tired opposition and have large enough numbers to outflank the defense.

Meanwhile, the orcs were spreading out, probably intending to break through the undefended and largely indefensible wall of the town. That he would concede, as long as they did not take it too quickly. The best plan, he decided, would just be to slay as many as possible. That would slow them down as well as anything else he could come up with. "Ride through their ranks at will killing as many as you can. Stick together in groups and keep moving to avoid being surrounded and overwhelmed."

They broke into groups of half a dozen to a dozen, Caldrion leading one such group into the next unit of orcs that would march up to Graldor. Behind the fighting, he saw the arrival of the only reinforcements Aratur was going to receive. Halin had finally managed to gather seven horse archers and was moving them behind Graldor. Caldrion had no time to observe the effectiveness of the archers, however, because the orcs, or at least a small group thereof, turned to meet his little charge. He had to swerve to avoid impaling his horse on a spear, and a couple of those behind him were not so lucky. He did manage to kill a few, but on the whole he was having greater difficulty keeping mounted and moving, as the orcs were trying to trap him and thereby eliminate his only advantage over them: speed.

He continued to lead his group, trying to kill and avoid being killed, and moved to target the orcs that had stopped a short distance from the wall of the town. The outer orcs had assumed a defensive stance while the ones inside were working on something, though he could not see what. His focus remained on his movements: slash, stab, dodge, stab, dodge, dodge, slash, dodge, miss, slash, dodge, stab, slash, dodge, dodge, dodge.

Having made several passes, he stopped to reassess the situation in the uncontested space southeast of the town where he had begun his operations. The eight following him had dwindled to two: Lenniol, who, based on his many scratches but lack of serious wounds, was probably as thick-skinned as he was thick-headed, and Ared, an old veteran who was successfully fighting like one. Graldor's line had effectively dealt with the first orc unit and had mostly slain the second, but they were clearly exhausted. They had retreated slightly and were far more spread out. Two mostly fresh groups of orcs were moving up now, and Caldrion figured that it was a matter of minutes before the line broke entirely. If by some miracle Graldor managed to withstand the next onslaught, yet another bunch of orcs was moving in. To the north, he saw that the orcs in a defensive position just east of Aratur were laden with archers. The bad news was that this was decidedly not a good thing. The good news was that they were not shooting at any of those fighting them.

The worst news, however, came as he shifted his glance toward the town. A significant number of orcs must have simply bypassed Aratur, because they were heading west at high speed, directly toward Hillguard. He sucked in a gasp as he realized that their retreat was cut off. It was now apparent that the orcs had both knowledge of the area and the intention to completely eradicate the people dwelling therein. His realization was confirmed when the archers began firing, in both senses of the word, the town. The pause behind their defensive stance had simply been to kindle flame with which to destroy Aratur.

There was a rush as everyone still in the town, from old men to horses, came pouring out the gate. They too saw the orcs heading west and, as the beasts scattered, getting away from the fire, the mass just stopped and began milling, unsure where to go and with no one to lead them. Caldrion wanted to do so, but there were too many orcs between him and them. Graldor could not either, as he remained engaged, invincible on account of the ring but also powerless against such numbers.

There was nothing to be done. Now that his horse was rested, he turned it toward Aratur, hoping to reach his family, if they were still around, die with them, and take as many orcs with him as possible. As he did so, he saw a female figure emerge from the crowd and run into the graves. Even though he could not clearly see her, the fact that she stopped and knelt by Sceofsen's last resting place identified her as his niece Eoscla, presumably saying one last goodbye to her old friend.

Even as he and the two behind him smashed into the rear of one of the units attacking Graldor, the front thereof broke through the center as other orcs ran right by the line's northern flank. The line was completely broken. Eoscla presumably heard the orcs coming but made no move to get up, though she probably could not have outrun them anyway. She died bloodily at the end of an orcish blade. Caldrion sobbed, realizing that she must have truly loved Sceofsen, even if she had not realized how much until after he was dead, and, having reached that conclusion, she had chosen not to allow death to separate them.

Caldrion stopped and turned his horse slightly south. He could not worry about his family now. He could only worry about saving himself. There was a track, he remembered, that intersected a stream that flowed into the river that had its source near the path beneath the mountains. He could flee there, now, before the orcs that had closed the east, north, and west closed the way south. He could make a new life fishing on the coast south of the mountains, and live a long time, forgetting all he ever knew of Graldor or his mission.

He heard a wave of screaming and looked back. The orcs were beginning to slowly cut through the mob, and the fight was now every man, woman, child, and horse for him or herself. He saw Fremus screaming at the top of his fading lungs before he was cut down. Caldrion had almost broken through to a small group of soldiers when he looked up and recognized Aelia, Rickens' widow, and Walame, the former carrying her baby and the latter with huge amounts of orc blood covering her sword and armor. They were running toward the group he was about to free and between them were two children. All thoughts of flight left him as he realized that one of the kids was Hrethere, his bow in one hand and Eadgla's hand in his other. The group of men that he was making his way towards included Catrilas, Othcyr, and Eodryn, and Walame and Aelia were, in effect, screening his other children so they could join their family.

Fortunately, the orcs were going for easier targets: the slow-running Yilisond, his similarly slow wife Farvas, and her now seriously heavy sister. Their ends looked particularly painful, though Caldrion noted that they did have the positive effect of driving more horses in his direction, which would allow them all to ride and renewed the possibility that they all might escape together.

With new determination, Caldrion broke through the circle even as Lenniol finally fell, his arm having been lopped off. Ared had the presence of mind to grab his horse before the orcs killed it as well. With their rear now secured, Catrilas' group took out the last of the foes between them and the four running to them. In addition to his wife and two older children, the group included Thalond, who only a short time ago had chosen loyalty to Graldor over loyalty to his old friends Smosur and Wyslun, Cynebald, who had never supported Wyslun despite being, alongside him, responsible for triggering the chain of events that had led to the massacre at Rising Sun, Ratley, who had long ago suffered as a slave of orcs such as these, and Rievlyn, who, judging by the blood, could use a sword just as well as his cobbling instruments. Those seven quickly began gathering the eight or so horses they would need to keep all but the children from having to ride double.

Walame and Aelia were fairly close to the others when Hrethere stumbled. Eadgla kept running as her brother struggled to regain his footing, and thus the three women had safely met the others before a column from the final unengaged unit of orcs moved between them and Hrethere. After mounting their horses, they began trying to fight their way through this new obstacle. Hrethere, for his part, had reacted with surprising calmness, simply taking arrows and disposing of some of the orcs separating him from his family.

Something drew Caldrion's gaze further up. Graldor, his already blurry figure made more shadowy by the flames of the burning city dancing behind, was standing alone, killing every orc that came close. He was wielding his sword with both hands and delivering blows with unnatural force, but his movements were sluggish, as though weighed down by the years that had not aged him visibly. At the moment, he was surrounded by a substantial number of foes. Even as he looked at them they surged forward, intending to bring him down with sheer weight of numbers. Before they could lay hands on him, however, he sheathed his sword, pulled off his ring, and stuck it in his pocket, perhaps intending to die on his own terms.

That was not, however, the plan of the orcs. Several horses were brought forward. Graldor was helped to mount one, and six orcs, at least a couple of which were probably leaders, given their stature and the heightened ornamentation of their armor, mounted the others. The remaining orcs opened a path for them, and they began heading east. Graldor merely sat on the horse, looking world-weary as though all the fight had left him, though whether he was taken resignedly or went willingly into this captivity Caldrion could not tell. It did not escape his notice that Graldor's own horse trampled Memara, his cook of so many years. This King had repaid years of loyal and unquestioning service with death.

Some voice in his head told him to yell for Hrethere to take down the King before he could ride away, kill him before it was too late. Caldrion was about to do so but, turning, he saw a pair of orcs sneaking up behind his son. There was no need to even think about the choice between killing Graldor for reasons he could not understand and saving his son's life. He yelled for Hrethere to turn around, which he did, firing two rapid arrows to slay his assailants before they could reach him. Graldor and his escort were now out of Hrethere's range. He then turned his attention back to those keeping him from his family, but with guttural roars another group of orcs came charging at him, this one too big to take down with what arrows remained.

Hrethere looked like he was about to bolt toward his family and hope for the best when Halin suddenly rode up behind and pulled Hrethere onto his horse. There was no time to move, however, before the orcs hit. As some of them surrounded him, others ducked in and literally chopped the horse's legs out from under it. Caldrion was not the only one wailing as the orcs' repeated hacking motions and the fountains of red blood left little question to the fate of his good friend and son.

Caldrion and Catrilas might have continued pointlessly fighting the orcs in their grief, but Ared yelled at them "Come on! We must get out of here!" Cynebald, visually noting that all their apparent escape routes were clogged with orcs, asked "Where?" Caldrion turned his horse, grimly told them "Follow me," and sped off to the south. A group of orcs to the east of them saw their flight and began running to cut them off, but the orcs had neither the speed nor the appropriate angle to do so. The riders forded the river, hastened across the last of the plains, and then started up the track into the mountains.

Before they were lost in the trees, Caldrion looked back. Aratur was naught but burning wood, with a beacon of smoke towering into the summer afternoon. Orcs swarmed around it like ants, and it seemed likely that these seven men, four women, and two children riding into the mountains were all that remained of Aratur. He imagined that the same would soon be true of Hillguard. It would certainly be razed, though he had hopes that Frealine, Dunev, or some other people from that town would survive.

Turning east, he thought he could spy the other survivor of the failed dream that was the Araturian Kingdom of the Plains. Graldor was now gone beyond Caldrion's reach, and the King's fate was no longer in his hands. He had failed. This whole task assigned by the Valar was somehow a sham, otherwise it would have succeeded. He had failed. For good or ill, he was running away and no longer had his purpose. He might have laughed at this new-found freedom, but something told him that he would never escape his past. He had failed. Graldor was riding east with the orcs, and he was riding south with what remained of his family and friends. He had failed. He would never know how badly.

-

They did not stop until after nightfall, and only then because Catrilas insisted. Caldrion had wanted to travel through the night in case there were orcs in pursuit, but everyone had at least scratches of some kind, and Walame had a fairly nasty wound in her side that she had told no one about. Once they had stopped, they lit a fire, again contrary to his wishes, so they could warm water in which to bathe everyone's injuries. The one concession to security that Caldrion obtained, largely because Ared agreed with him, was to put out the fire and move away from it to sleep. It would not do to attract unwanted attention while most of them were at rest. This first night, he knew, would be the most critical, because if orc pursuit did not find them by the next morning, their speed, even through the forest, would be too much for the orcs to keep up with.

Given that no orcs made appearances during the night, the subsequent journey held no surprises. When they reached the spot where Sirgo had died calling the flood, Caldrion paused to remember him and pray that his self-sacrifice had not been in vain. Once they reached the river, which was immediately surrounded by a fairly flat floodplain, the riding became easy, even if the mood was still melancholy in the extreme. In addition to all the losses they had already suffered, no one was in the best of health. Walame, Ratley, and Thalond still had bad wounds that were not healing well, and Eadgla had developed a sniffle more typical of the winter months.

Walame was the first to succumb, going to sleep one night and not waking up. Her body was wracked with fever, and her wound had reopened overnight, draining the life from her already weak body. They took her herbs and poultices, even though none of them had enough skill to properly use them, and then gave her to the river.

It was in that evening that they came to the spot that most likely marked the path that led to the pass under the mountains. Though there would have been plenty of light on the plains, the towering mountains threw the whole of the valley into shadow. It was Eodryn who actually spotted the path winding up the mountain. It was composed of a series of tight turns that gradually ascended the mountain's face.

Ahead of them, the valley seemed to narrow, likely indicating that it was approaching the gorge through which it descended from its source. Caldrion, who was uncertain about using a path that had probably been carved by orcs or humans many years in the past, sent Rievlyn and Thalond ahead to confirm that the river was indeed coming to its source before committing the group to going up the mountain.

The more he thought about it, however, the more it made sense. A pass beneath the mountains was most likely a series of caverns discovered and perhaps improved upon by men. For the nomads to have heard rumors of this pass, it must have, like the path, been around for some time and was thus probably the product of a civilization eradicated by the slow decay of passing years, given that it seemed unlikely that orcs would have come so far into the mountain range. Maybe these ruins served as the base of those few uncivilized men who hunted in the mountains.

It made sense. He started up the path and the others followed. He had not gotten very far when Rievlyn came riding back toward them in haste. "Run! They got Thalond!" Caldrion did not have the chance to ask who he was talking about, because as the cobbler started following them up the path, a group of maybe thirty wild men, ill-clothed and ill-armed, came into view. Caldrion thought that his band would have at least some small chance of defeating them, but it would be better to just continue up and hope that they did not follow.

Unfortunately, they did, and what advantage of speed the riders had was largely negated because they really needed to take the turns slow. As they neared the top, blocks of stone were set at three of the turns, the last of which was carved in the shape of a man, short and fat, with a sense of evil issuing from his dark eyes and sharp teeth. It was clearly recent work.

As he reached the top, he saw the workers. There were hundreds of them, the men of the mountains, and by the terror he felt at observing them he knew there would be no safe passage through. It was a city, moreso than Aratur had ever been. Standing stones lined the road that went through the center of the grassy plain, with primitive but serviceable wooden houses placed in a seemingly organized pattern primarily to the right of the road. It seemed a topographic anomaly, a most improbable place for a civilization, but then, when had anything in Caldrion's experience been probable? The most frightening sight was the huge semicircle of sheer rock face, which in form most resembled the ampitheatre in Vinyalonde but dwarfed it in scale. What scared Caldrion about it, though, was not the physical location but the men therein. They were on their knees, looking to the east, and it was obvious, even at this distance, that they were shedding their own blood by cutting themselves with knives. It was a temple, and certainly not to the Valar in which Caldrion believed.

The men from below were approaching the last turn while those above had seen the intruders but were gathering to attack rather than trying to do so piecemeal. Caldrion turned to his wife, hoping to hold her face before his eyes as he fought his last battle. Ironically, all he could think of relating to Catrilas was the night he had met her, one both of them would be just as happy to forget. But thinking about that reminded him of other things he had heard about that day…

Ratley was not content just to think. As their pursuers entered the last turn, he spurred his horse and charged them. Ared and Cynebald followed, even as Caldrion yelled for them not to. He dismounted and pulled out his sword, a final, desperate plan forming in his head. Below, Ratley managed to kill a couple, but he focused too much on striking his foes and not enough on directing his horse. A wild man standing next to the edge simply grabbed the reins and yanked, sending man and beast tumbling over the side. Also tumbling was Cynebald, betrayed by his own horse, which tripped, presumably over a stone. The rider undoubtedly broke his neck on impact. Ared managed to avoid Ratley's error and Cynebald's bad luck only to die when, after charging directly into the mass of men, they simply parted before him. Without the anticipated collisions, he was unable to slow down enough before following Ratley over the brink.

Caldrion was reaching deep inside himself. If he could successfully blind the Enemy, perhaps he could, as Sirgo had, call the power of the land to his defense. As the men drew closer on both sides, he stood silently, arms raised in supplication, his sword lying at his feet. His armor suddenly exploded off of him, hurtling into the assembled foes. They stopped in fear and surprise, hesitating until another came forward to lead them, as Caldrion staggered and fell to his knees.

Othcyr looked behind her. Every one of the wild men on the path was dead, some lying where they fell, other bodies having dropped over the edge.

Caldrion, through great strength of will, somehow managed to pull himself back to his feet and pick up the sword he had dropped. With his armor gone, he was wearing only a tunic, which seemed far too clean for all he had been through. He had seen this before.

He turned to his wife, his breath coming in shallow spurts. "Go. Travel by day, light no fires by night. Follow the rising sun to the great river and follow it north. There is no refuge in these mountains." He turned back toward the wild men.

"Will you not come with us?" Catrilas asked.

"My errors have doomed me. They must be washed clean with blood. If I tried to flee, and I am unsure that I could ride now, we would all die."

"Then I will die with you." Eodryn declared, directing his horse to stand next to his father. By their expressions, Catrilas, Othcyr, Rievlyn, and even Aelia felt the same way.

"No," he answered his son. "You must go. They will need a swordsman to fight for them." _And die for them_, Caldrion thought but did not add. He looked back at them one last time. "Go."

He turned around. He heard, but did not see, the hooves of the horses returning down the mountain. His attention was held by the man who must have been the leader, for he was clad in flowing black robes and wielded a wicked mace and the others moved carefully forward at his beckoning. Caldrion was glad of that. The more cautious they were, the more time he could give the others.

The wild men could see the others riding off, but one blocked their path. Clad in the white tunic, he looked like nothing so much as an angel. But no angels came to this place, only demons. His face was calm but determined. They would not get his family and friends, the last folk of the broken dream that was Aratur. One of the men cried "A sacrifice! Make him a sacrifice to the Dark Lord!" And the rest picked up the cry "A sacrifice! A sacrifice!" as they closed in for the kill. Caldrion held his sword before him, ready to meet his doom.

-

(And so my father's tale comes to an end. Whether it is history, legend, or misguided creativity is for others to decide. While undoubtedly a flawed narrative in terms of its distortions of space and time and its obvious borrowing from later history, I have come to the conclusion that, at some level, it contains something that, while not necessarily true, is of undeniable value to our ongoing studies of the tactics of the Enemy and the nature of his servants during the Dark Years. As such, I believe it was worth my time to record and deserves a place amongst the other assembled records where it may, given further scrutiny and perhaps the discovery of heretofore unread manuscripts, help fill some of the holes in our knowledge.)

Hamfast, son of Samwise Gamgee  
copy submitted for the library of Brandy Hall  
the 15th day Afterlithe, S.R. 1485


	17. Epilogue: A Storm is Coming

Author's Notes: Well, it's done. It is my sincere hope that my characters and story have seemed a fitting interpretation of Professor Tolkien's world. Scenes and lines that are similar to the book or movies are, for the most part, deliberately so, because in explicitly alluding to them I have created a story that does not neatly fit into a fixed place within the larger context. That is, in fact, the primary purpose of the frame I put around the story; it allowed me to deliberately take some liberties with space/time things, which are among the most easily distorted in the repetition and spread of a tale. Just as my own conception of the tale evolved over the two and a half years that I've been working on it, so too does the presentation allow me to treat the story as something that has changed over time.  
Many thanks to those who have read and reviewed this; I hope that you had as much fun (if it can be called that) reading it as I did writing it.  
**Dragon-of-the-north**: Thank you so much. Your reviews have been a great encouragement to me. I dunno; for some reason, I've always been drawn to powerful downer movies, so I suppose it's no surprise that I put all my effort into writing an apocalyptic fanfic. Take comfort, at least, that Caldrion didn't end actually end up as a sacrifice (or at least his soul didn't); he truly dreamed of his own end in Chapter XIV.  
**Lady LeBeau**: Thank you for reviewing and for being a good friend to chat with. What can I say? This fic was never going to have a happy ending, although the nature of it changed when Caldrion, asserting the independent will that most OCs have, shifted the focus of the latter part of the story to him rather than Graldor, thereby changing my intentions for the story (making it far less ambitious) and necessitating a chapter outside the frame narration to tie up the outstanding bits of foreshadowing.

Wings of the Storm, Epilogue- A Storm is Coming

So here I am, an old woman sitting by the fire, fighting a losing battle to keep my feet warm. Often, when my grandchildren are engaged in other pursuits, usually taking my own children with them, I find myself thinking of days long past, events that happened so long ago and so far away that they would seem to have occurred in another world, save that I could remember seeing them. Sometimes I wonder if I could have done things differently, if I could have changed the course of history. But then I remember how it began long before me, and will likely continue long after me. All I did was move it along, and if I had not done so another certainly would have.

And if I will not allow myself to regret my effect on the large things, then I cannot worry about the small ones. Even had I Walame's skill, I doubt I could have kept Eadgla from succumbing to the fever that consumed her. Even were I as skilled with a blade as my father, I would not have been in a position to save either of my brothers. No tears now, and no regrets. It is done, and soon I expect to join them all.

Even now, after so many years, I can still remember them with surprising clarity. Sirgo. Betlin. Hrethere. Halin. Walame. My father. All the ghosts of Aratur. And Frealine and the dead of Hillguard. And those who survived the wreck of that country, even if only for a short time. Eadgla. Eodryn. Mom. Dunev and Aelia. My beloved Aeschen. I shall see all of them soon. Maybe even Graldor will be there, and I can finally ask him why he acted as he did, why he led his people down a road from whence few escaped. I do not doubt that it was his evil decisions that brought that orc army against us.

In addition to the small band that my father sacrificed himself to save, Dunev had managed to get almost a dozen women and children out of Hillguard unnoticed by the orcs. Eodryn, brave and foolish as he was, had determined to ride by Hillguard and see that it too was no more than a burnt mark on the ground. One of the women saw him from their hiding spot, and so Dunev and the only known survivors of Hillguard joined us in our journey.

And so we went north, always north, and the shadows lengthened. I have forgotten most of that expedition, for it was long, arduous, and painful both physically and emotionally. The only real exception was the unlikely but increasingly beautiful relationship between Dunev and Aelia. After Eadgla died, they were the ones who kept the rest of us from giving up. When we settled, they and later their children would remain my closest friends.

Only one specific incident stands out, because it was both an end and a beginning. Eodryn was riding ahead of our column, as was his habit, when a ragged band of eight orcs came down on him. He killed three of them before taking a deep cut to his thigh that dismounted him. The orcs advanced on the rest of us. Inconveniently, the women behind Eodryn were unarmed. Mom and I were dashing forward, as were Dunev and Rievlyn from their positions in the rear, but we would not come in time to prevent further bloodshed.

Two of the orcs were pierced by arrows, and when the other three hesitated they too were brought down in rapid succession. It was a timely rescue. At roughly the same time as I made visual acquisition of our ally, Aeschen, nine more orcs attacked the column's flank. Luckily, the two other men in the group plus my mother and myself were in position to engage them, and these orcs did not have enough confidence or experience to save themselves.

Eodryn bled to death in our arms. Our only solace was that no one else joined him. Of course, that little victory would have been impossible without Aeschen. Since my father had told me that he lived, I was not as surprised as the others, but my outlook on life was forever changed: if I had believed in coincidences before, I certainly did not afterwards. It could not have been mere chance that brought him to me, after my father had saved him from otherwise certain death.

Aeschen and I had been friendly, though not exactly close, in Aratur, but on the road north we fell in love. As it turned out, he had feelings for me that predated my fight with my cousin, feelings that my father at least suspected. It was to my great surprise that I began to have feelings for him, feelings of a kind that I never expected to have. I do not even pretend to understand it; love just happened, and it made both of us inexpressibly happy in the midst of such sorrow. He was largely responsible for convincing my mother not to give up after losing the third of her children. He related to us many things that my father had told him about us on their last campaign together, and somehow those memories restored her.

In time, we came to populated lands between the great forest and the river. The peoples, rivermen to the west and woodlanders to the east, were gruff and initially distrustful but they eventually allowed us to settle on fertile lands between them. They proved to be good at heart, and they let us maintain something of our own identity in this town, which was dubbed Frumgar by Aelia's and Rickens' little son Rickam. There Aeschen and I were married. There we raised our children, teaching them as much as we could of their heritage and passing on the skills of horsemanship that were completely foreign to our neighbors. One of our sons married a daughter of Aelia and Rickens, but the rest took spouses whose parents had long lived in this region, and their children, my grandchildren, would call this land home.

But it is not. The blood of Numenor runs in our veins, though we live in the north. Neither is our home, for our home is in the Plains and, one day, we shall return.

-

The hustle and bustle of orc activities continued, but he paid them no heed. They were not his concern, and probably would never be his concern. Of more importance to him was the power. He could feel it flowing around him always. It emanated from the Master, like an endless wave of flame, but it made a dark echo through his being, progressively stripping his essence bare and wrapping it in shadow. Not that he particularly cared. As long as his desire for power, a hunger he never knew he had, was continually fed, all was fine.

He went forth, reveling in the freedom of movement. In this service there was no routine, no training, no form to the day. It seemed inappropriate to even refer to 'days' anymore, since the only definition he had came from the Master, who provided only that which was needed, neither more nor less. Thus he could not remember the agony of physical torture, the humiliation of losing his mental autonomy, the pain of fading, and the torture of losing everything but his thirst for power. Those had served their purpose, and now were nothing more than the unidentifiable ghosts of memories. Neither he nor any of his brethren knew their purpose, or even of the need for purpose, except that they would be kept hidden as long as possible, until the Master needed to wield them.

So he ventured forth, thrilling as his mere presence caused a new wave of fear to flow through the world. He might have smiled, save that he could not remember how. Not that it mattered. He had not felt such pride in ages, since his first kill… or perhaps his first woman. But he was far beyond such petty things now. He was part of something greater, something that would conquer the world. There was great pride in being a ringbearer. If he had still possessed a heart, it would have swelled. He was one of the storm, the Ring Lord's storm, and he was out testing his wings.


End file.
